


Choosing Chrysaor

by TolkienGirl



Category: Enemy Brothers - Constance Savery
Genre: Brotherly Love, F/M, Gen, Post-World War II, if you haven't read this amazing book please do so at once, it's criminally underrated, it's in my top ten list, stylistically based on Savery's gentle prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: After the war, promises are kept. But the world has changed and keeps on changing, no matter how much Tony wishes it wouldn't.





	1. The Edge of April

**Author's Note:**

> Enemy Brothers by Constance Savery was originally published in 1943, two years before the Allied Forces won the War. It tells the story of a young British airman, Dym Ingleford, who rescues a lost younger sibling who has been raised in Nazi Germany. Tony, unwilling to accept his English family, fights tooth-and-nail to remain loyal to Germany. It's an achingly sweet and beautiful and humorous and moving story, and I would recommend it to everyone. A few years ago I began to write a sequel for it. It's far from perfect, but I thought I'd share what I have so far.
> 
> The title of this fic is the first sign that yes, you really should read the original first--you won't understand too much without it.
> 
> Although the original story is set in 1940-41, I've retroactively tightened the timeline so that I can tell this story in 1946 with the characters only three years older.

The buffeting winds of a late March storm wrapped their gray arms around the stalwart old house, reaching gusty fingers into cracks and crevices worn by time.

But the house stood firm against the blustering advances, and so the winds tried their luck over the surrounding fields, bleached brown and gray by winter sunlight. Here and there, spring was peeping through, pushing soft, hopeful green sprouts up past the matted grasses and lending a pleasanter look to the English countryside.

The storm tore at the traces of green, but the slopes of the “biggest bomb crater in England” protected the youthful beginnings of Sally Ingleford’s famous sunken garden.

Inside the White Priory—as the grand old house was called—a boy of fifteen was curled up on the threadbare sofa of the large sitting room, scribbling on a few sheets of a precious exercise book and sending occasional glances out the rain-streaked windows.

Anthony Victor Ingleford, once known as Max Eckermann, was rather glad for the rain. Had the day been fair, he might have been persuaded by Simon and Judy to trek across the downs, or accompanied Thomas into the village.

A walk with the eldest Ingleford was a treat, but as he felt that duty kept him at the copybook, he was grateful that the rain prevented any temptations.

He had promised Dym an air for his viola three months ago. Dym would be home tomorrow morning and the air was only five meager measures so far, all penned this afternoon.

It was true, Dym would not be at all angry if the promise was unfulfilled, but Dym had made—and kept—so many promises himself that it felt like a breach of honor not to keep such a little one.

“Tony!”

The eager voices of the twins’ burst into Tony’s hurried composing, and he shut the exercise book quickly. The air was for Dym’s eyes alone. Simon and Judy had no appreciation for the finer arts.

“Take us fishing?” Simon asked, while Judy pulled at his sleeve. They were thirteen, round-faced and impudent, with sandy hair and bold blue eyes.

“Busy,” replied Tony briefly. He was glad to have such a weighty excuse as a task for Dym; even if he wasn’t writing music he would have declined the offer. Being drenched to the skin with only a few trout as a prize had scant appeal for Tony.

“What is it?” demanded Judy, with an inquiring glance at the book, but Tony drew back.

“It’s for Dym,” he explained, not wanting to proffer any more information than was needed.

“Oh, come on, Simon,” Judy called, tossing her curls. “Tony’s gone all stubborn and German again. He won’t come.”

Tony scowled at her retreating back and returned to his composition. But Simon was not so easily dissuaded. “Come off it, Tony, it’ll be great fun,” he pleaded, But Tony was adamant. He was busy—it was almost teatime—and had Euphemia given them permission anyway?

Simon was rather reticent as to Euphemia’s permission, and retreated, saying sulkily, “When Porgy and Mary and Mousie come, it will be jolly. They’ll be better company than _you._ ”

Tony felt somewhat aggrieved. Whether he would fish or not, Simon ought to prefer his company to theirs. He was not overly fond of his three cousins, who had spent a good deal of the war sequestered in the White Priory. After V-E Day, they had been able to return with their parents to India, where Tony wished they would remain.

“Glad you’re so game for their visit—you’ll be entertaining them without me. Dym will be back home by then.” His lofty tone implied that all his time would be spent with Dym, rather than devoted to the amusements of the three cousins. Tony dared not admit, even to himself, the uncertainty he was feeling as to whether or not Dym would want to spend all of his time with _him._

Euphemia’s entrance did not allow him time to muse over the unpleasant thought. She came in with a tea tray of jam-filled biscuits, which she set on the table.

Simon reached for one, but she swatted his hand away. “Not now, dear. These are for tea, and this is the last of the jam.”

“ _They_ want to go fishing,” said Tony vengefully, by way of getting back at Simon for his disloyalty.

Euphemia threw up her hands. “No, no! I won’t have you two out of doors, catching your death of cold. It’s not fishing season anyway—it’s not April yet.”

Simon hadn’t thought of this, and scuffed the floor regretfully. “Then, can Judy and I go down to the cellar? It’s sure to be flooded, with all this rain.” He looked hopeful at the prospect.

“ _May_ Judy and I,” Euphemia corrected automatically, and then thought about his request for a moment. “Well, alright. Don’t make too much of a mess. This house is untidy enough!”

“Make Tony come too,” pressed Simon, but Euphemia shook her head. “No, Tony is busy. And his constitution is too weak for all that damp—you know that!”

Tony shot Simon a triumphant glance, and then moved stealthily towards the tea table when he had gone.

“Just one, Phemie?”

She pushed a strand of her red hair back into its knot with an exasperated look. “Tony, I wouldn’t let Simon—”

“It’s for my constitution,” he coaxed, and she gave in. Tony savored the biscuit—a bit short on sugar, for rationing was still in rather full effect—and smiled to himself. Even after three years, Phemie was not immune to his persuasive charms.

The door opened, and sixteen-year old Sally came in, pushing her tangled red hair under her green hood. “I’ve got the post, Phemie,” she said cheerfully. “I say, it’s beastly out. And there’s a telegram from Dym—his train’s been delayed by this frightful storm.”

Dym _delayed_? Tony slumped back into his seat, disappointed. It was a double-edged sword—it gave him more time to write the air, but it also meant more waiting before Dym was home.

He frowned darkly at the painstaking music notes scrawled across the page. They seemed to mock him—his wish for extra time had been rewarded, but at a cost.

Euphemia continued to set things out for tea, but Sally took off her mackintosh and rubbers and sat down beside him. Sally was one of Tony’s favorites among the siblings that still felt like new—she was rather like a mixture of Phemie and James, with a little bit of Dym.

“Rotten luck, isn’t it?” she remarked, after a pause.

Tony thought it was.

Sally rested her pointed chin on her hands and turned her sparkling green eyes towards the crackling fire. “It reminds me of a poem I read once,” she said suddenly, turning to look at Tony. “You remember, during the war, when Dym used to give us something to read…so that we had other things to put our minds on?”

Tony remembered—remembered the very first time Dym had told him of it, during that fateful, wintry train ride over three years ago. He had been Max, then—desperately, defiantly so—and Dym had been “Herr Dym,” a title which Tony had delivered in scornful, haughty tones. He shook the memories away, not liking to think of the old days. He would rather think of now, when Dym—no longer Herr Dym, but dear Dym—was coming home tomorrow.

Then he recalled Sally’s question. “Yes, I know. Do you remember the poem?” He liked poetry, even more than he admitted to his family. Not all of them shared his taste—cousin Porgy, for one, certainly did not.

Sally shook her head, sending her damp, wild curls flying. “No,” she said regretfully. “It was about a fireside, and a snug house with a storm outside. You should ask Dym. He might know. He’s got a good memory.”

“Perhaps I shall,” answered Tony, and then fell silent, staring at the flames. Sally’s mention of fireplaces and snug houses had reminded him of the far-off days in Germany, and of the other question he had for Dym. He did not want to think of it now.

“Where is Jim?” he asked, to change the subject.

Sally looked surprised. “Down at the station, to meet Ginger—didn’t you know?”

Tony had known, but in his haste to prepare the music for Dym, he had all but forgotten that Ginger was coming home too. Ginger had been in the Royal Navy during the war, but when his term of service was up he had gone to school for medicine. It was true that Tony thought Ginger and doctoring a rather poor match, but he kept this opinion to himself. Dym would make a better doctor, but that would mean that he would be away at school for years—no, it was best that Ginger went instead. Perhaps in England, all sorts of people were doctors.

There had been a time when there was no love lost between Tony and Ginger, but Tony liked the loud, boisterous, redheaded brother well enough now. Not of course, so well as he liked Dym. There was really no one to equal Dym in all the world.

“Tony,” said Sally, drawing him forth from his reverie once more, “D’you know, I haven’t yet got used to how empty the house feels. Have you?”

Tony tucked the copybook beside him. It was plain that his solitude was interrupted for the moment. All the same, he did not mind Sally’s company. “I like it better this way. The evacuées did not like me and I did not like them except for Bill, sometimes. Mr. Bland hated me, and…” Tony paused and smiled with bitter satisfaction at certain memories of Mr. Bland, the evacuées’ schoolmaster… “he was entirely ignorant. I would have told him so more often than I did if I had not wanted to hurt Thomas and Phemie. I am glad that they are gone.”

Sally turned the subject a little, knowing that Tony’s rebellious self could still flare up on occasion. “What about Porgy and Mary and Mousie, though?”

Tony paused cautiously. Sally was a good confidante, but there were certain things he would not tell even her.

“Cousins are cousins,” he said evasively at last, repeating something James had once said to him. “Siblings are better, I think.” He smiled a little, thinking of one sibling in particular.

“Like Dym,” murmured Sally, seeming to read the thought. “Everybody loves Dym.” She sighed. “It’s too bad about his train. But what were you doing just now, when I came in?”

“Writing an air for Dym’s viola,” Tony explained, a little shyly. “I promised him one.”

“That’s jolly good of you,” said Sally, smiling brightly at him. “You know, Tony, Porgy used to say you were the most like Margaret”—Sally was too tactful to say why—“but I think you’re like Dym. You’re both thoughtful.”

Tony pretended to brush off the compliment, but he was secretly pleased. He liked being compared to Dym.


	2. Ginger Comes Home

All the White Priory Inglefords were home when James and Ginger came—from big, gentle Thomas down to the twins. The family was in halves—the eldest children from the first wife of the former Thomas Ingleford, and the younger from the second. Thomas and Mortimer began the first half, and were followed by Euphemia and Margaret and. Richard was from that half of the family too, Tony knew, though he had never known him. The soldier brother had died fighting in the Middle East two years before, and had not been home to see Tony again. Then the second half of the family began—Tony’s half—with Dym, then Ginger, then James, Sally, Tony, and the twins. They were, as Dym had once said, a large enough family in peace-time—but the house did feel emptier now. During the war, the three cousins, the evacuées and Mr. Bland, a mother and three small children, and three elderly aunts whose home had been requisitioned had rounded out the household. Now only the three elderly aunts remained—the others were gone.

Tony did not consider any of the departed to be much loss. As he had said to Sally, he far preferred the family that had become his in three years—the family that he belonged to now, thanks to the relentless search of Dym.

Dym was responsible for it all—for turning Max Eckermann into Anthony Ingleford, both legally, and in the eyes of Anthony himself. _That_ had been hardest of all, and had doubtless pushed even Dym’s seemingly limitless patience to the breaking point. After running away as often and as inconveniently as possible, Tony had finally chosen to accept what he knew now was the truth. It hadn’t always been easy—there were memories of Germany to think of, memories of Mutti—

He pushed that thought away sharply and forced himself to occupy his mind by examining his assembled family. Euphemia was discussing something with Thomas, and Margaret was putting in a few curt words of advice now and again. So Porgy had thought he was most like Margaret…Tony was not sure how he felt about this. Margaret’s steely-blue eyes flashed from under her dark hair, and her limp…the lingering result of the automobile accident that had taken their father…gave her a slightly crotchety air. Still, Margaret was fair—a trait that Tony had been grateful for in the past. He decided that being compared to Margaret was not the best thing that could have happened to him, but it was not the worst, either.

Mortimer was standing quietly by, reading. He was a school-teacher—and Tony did not know that there was much else to think of him. He was tired, faded, and quiet, but a little like Dym. That was something in his favor.

Sally, himself and the twins were the only others present in the square front hall, which was hung with red flags dating back to the Priory’s more ostentatious days. Ginger and James would be back any moment. Only Dym was still far away.

Tony sighed. He had finished his air during tea, so now there was no possible benefit from the delay now.

“They are taking a long time,” observed Judy shrilly. “Why couldn’t we go to the station, Thomas? Simon and I wanted very much to go.”

“It was storming out,” Thomas explained, unruffled by Judy’s accusatory tone. Thomas, Tony knew, was rarely perturbed by anything. He had tested this theory enough times to know.

The front door burst open, and Ginger and Jim stumped in, shaking the rain out of their wild red hair and tracking mud all over the mat.

“Hullo!” cried Ginger, as the family swamped him in a general stampede. “Hullo, Tommy, old-man—Simon, Judy, you’re bigger than ever—Sally, Phemie, Maggie—how do, Spitfire—” this last to Tony, who smiled in return, knowing that he’d earned the nickname by means of choice past exploits. He was glad to see Ginger, but he had forgotten how very loud he was, how—explosive. Again, he longed for a quiet, slight smile and low, steady voice.

Jim slipped past him with a “Hullo, Tony,” and went to hang up his coat. Tony hadn’t seen much of Jim lately—he’d been studying for his entrance exams for university—and he thought that to be a pity. He liked Jim, who combined some of Ginger’s fire with Dym’s more even temperament. Jim had been there for him during the early days, he reflected, as had Sally. Not many of the others had stuck by him. Ginger hadn’t—but then, that was all in the past. He’d made enough trouble in the beginning that it was no wonder some of the family had resented him—it was only a wonder now that they had forgiven and forgotten.

The family pulled Ginger into the dining room, where supper was laid out on the table. There was a whirr of talking that made Tony’s head hurt.

“Your train wasn’t delayed? Dym’s was—” “How were your exams? Horrid, I suppose? They always are, in medicine, or so I’ve heard—” and Ginger answering, “Yes, they were beastly. I scraped by alright though, always do. Glad to be home again. Phemie, you’d think that there was still a war going on, with the food they serve! Nothing like seeing a real plum pudding again.”

“It’s as real as it _can_ be, with the shortages,” Phemie said, with a twist of worry at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t often complain.

Thomas said the blessing, and the entire family began to eat, with Ginger enjoying it the most. Tony attempted to listen to fragments of conversation, but it was so overwhelming. Ginger had just gone to the wedding of an old Navy friend—“You remember old Lance, don’t you?”—no, he wouldn’t describe what the bride looked like for Judy. Then they were talking about his professors at the University—“A sorry lot, better join the Navy instead,” he advised Jim, between mouthfuls of roast beef.

“Haven’t you got a girlfriend yet?” Simon piped up, at which suggestion Ginger sputtered.

“What? Just watched Lance get tied to the apron strings, poor chap! I won’t be following him anytime soon.”

Euphemia shook her head and laughed. “Don’t be silly. You’ll want to settle down soon enough. There’s peace, after all. Why not start a family?”

Ginger ruffled his flaming hair with a mocking grin. “Better off giving that speech to Dym, Phemie. He’s a steady old beggar—far likelier.”

Tony clutched his fork, in shock at the terrible thought. If Dym were to “settle down” and get married, then he, Tony, would be forever bereft of the particular attention that he had always enjoyed. Dym had gotten him into this family, surely he wouldn’t abandon a hapless younger brother now—

But Ginger was talking again. “Speaking of which, I got wind of something—but never mind. I won’t rag on the lousy fellow when he isn’t here to defend himself. Where is he, anyway?”

Margaret split open a roll and spread margarine on it. “He isn’t due until tomorrow.”

“And his train was delayed,” put in Judy eagerly.

Ginger shook his head. “Bad luck. Poor Dym. He ‘phoned me from New York a couple of days ago. Called when he got on leave.”

“The war’s over—is Dym going to stay in the R.A.F. anyway?” Sally wanted to know.

Tony listened hard, interested. He had not spoken for the entire meal, and he knew that if he had, nobody would have heard him. Now that he was no longer given to the exhibitions that had characterized his early days at the White Priory, he often slipped into the background at family gatherings such as this.

“I don’t know,” Thomas was answering. “He’s a pilot, and the Air Force still has a use for him. Then again, he doesn’t have a clear plan in mind for what he wants to do after his term of duty’s up.”

“I thought he wanted to study law,” Margaret remarked, stabbing a stray piece of carrot with her fork.

Ginger laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Old Dym always did have that sort of logical mind—and he’s not easily shaken. He’d be the slyest cat on the bench, if that’s what he does.”

“I don’t think he could give up flying,” Sally said dreamily. “He loves to fly—he told me so.”

 _He’d better not give up flying before he takes me for a ride,_ Tony thought, but he did not say it aloud. The rest of his relations had already moved from Dym’s prospects to James’s, wrangling over what he should study.

Tony rested his head on his hand, after making quite certain that Margaret’s eyes were not on him. She disapproved of elbows on the table.

“Tired, Tony?” Thomas inquired kindly, from his seat at the end. Tony had never ceased to marvel at how large he was, with his big, lean face that had friendly lines worked in around the eyes and mouth. Thomas was old—past forty, perhaps. Tony was not entirely sure. Some facts that the rest of his siblings took for granted had been lost on him. It wasn’t his fault— _he_ hadn’t chosen to enter the family at such a late date. Of course, he thought, if it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have entered the family at all. It was very fortunate, he saw now, that the choice had not been put to him before he was ready.

“A little,” he said, in answer to Thomas’s question. “But I’m alright.” In truth, he would rather slip away from the table and up to his room, to reread Dym’s last letter, which had held delightful promises of another visit from the Cavendishes, English friends of Tony’s whom he had known from Germany. They were in Wales, now, but Michael and Geoffrey and David occasionally came by for a visit—usually orchestrated by Dym, who was never too busy to do such a thing for a younger sibling.

But it was still too early to excuse himself from the table without proper excuse. He turned his attention to devouring the meat, potatoes and plum pudding—which, despite Ginger’s joy, were not really yet themselves. It wasn’t just sugar that was low; bacon and soap and cooking oil had been rationed again, and while the twins might be pleased by less washes, Tony knew the household felt it keenly.

Still, Tony reflected, it was good to have the war over. Dym and Ginger were safe from harm now; James would not have to fight; there was no fear of the Germans invading…an event which Tony had once looked forward to. Only Richard had suffered, poor Richard, who Tony had wanted very much to meet. Richard, Sally had told him, was a great deal like Ginger, and everyone missed him. Even the staunch White Priory had not completely escaped the horror of war. But there were pleasanter prospects now. Now that war was over, it was possible—just possible—that he might see Mutti again. Dym had promised him that, when Tony had returned from his last attempt at escape—returned of his own accord, repentant, never to try his luck at it again.

 _“After the war…I’ll take you to see her, some day.”_ It must have been hard for Dym to promise, but he _had_ promised it.

And now, after three years of waiting, the war was over. Tony wanted him to make good on his promise.

 _That_ was what he had to ask Dym when he came home.


	3. The Return

When supper was over, the family moved to the living room. Ginger held the place of honor on the sofa, with Simon and Judy on each side and Sally perched on the arm. Euphemia and Margaret took out their knitting.

While Ginger told stories of his many adventures, Tony sat in a chair by the window and watched Euphemia’s needles flashing through the blue yarn. She was knitting a sweater for Judy, which had been promised in the fall but had turned into a season-long project.

They hadn’t seen Ginger since the Christmas holidays. They hadn’t seen Dym since Christmas either, but his seven day’s leave had been much less satisfying than Ginger’s three weeks off between terms.

Tony was glad to see Ginger, but he was not paying much attention to Ginger’s stories. He jerked out of his thoughts when he realized that he was being spoken to.

“Hey there, Spitfire—daydreaming?”

“Sorry,” said Tony, with a blush.

“I saw your friend Olaf the other day,” Ginger was saying. “His parents and the rest of the kids are coming over from Norway next month.”

Tony was glad to hear this. It seemed that at last, past wrongs against the Norwegians might at last be made good. Of course, he and Olaf had been friends for a long time now—but Tony had still had the uncomfortable remembrance that Olaf’s father was still detained in Norway, that his mother and siblings were in hiding, and that all of these unfortunate circumstances were at least in part to the credit of the one-time Max Eckermann.

Olaf had always been kind—Olaf, like Dym, did not make one think of former injustices. But the fact remained that Tony _had_ been the cause of suffering, and he was relieved that it would at last be rectified.

“I’m glad,” he said, staring at a hole in the brown matted carpet. He could feel the curious looks of some of his relations, and he did not want to meet their eyes. Fortunately, his family soon returned their interest to Ginger, and Tony did not feel so much like a specimen under a benevolent but overly-inquisitive microscope.

Ginger was asking his younger siblings questions.

“I do alright in school,” said Sally, “But it’s Tony who’s the bright one. He’s awfully clever at maths.”

Tony was grateful for this favorable description, but not so grateful for being dragged into the spotlight again. “Numbers are easy,” he said carefully. He liked drawing the best—had always liked it, and his teachers _did_ think his sketches remarkably good, but he did not wish to make a public announcement of the fact. He did not wish to face Ginger’s scorn of artistic endeavors.

“Maths will be the death of me,” groaned James. “Geometry’s my worst, and I know it’s going to be all over the blighted exam.”

Ginger laughed. “They’re always able to sense what you like the least. But you’ll do fine, Jimmy.”

“After all, if the infamous Reginald could pass, you will too,” Margaret quipped, turning the heel of her sock.

“That’s nice—very nice indeed!” cried Ginger indignantly. “I’ll have you know that getting into medical school is only an accomplishment of the best and brightest. They’re combing the countryside for fellows like me, only they won’t have much luck matching my brilliance.”

Euphemia laughed. “It’s your humility that they’ll have trouble matching, Ginger. Simon, won’t you go and ask Betsy to make another pot of coffee? Thank you, dear.”

Tony was inclined to follow Simon into the kitchen, where it would be quieter. He liked Betsy, too—she had been his old nurse when he was a baby, and he was still her favorite. She was easy to coax—easier even than Euphemia, although there was nobody to equal Mutti. Mutti had done whatever he liked.

He paused for a moment, wondering if he missed that. Dym was impossible to deceive and entirely immovable on certain points; all of Tony’s powers of persuasion were lost on him. Yet he loved Dym more than he had loved Mutti.

This realization made him feel suddenly guilty. _Did_ he? Again, Tony thought it wiser to turn such thoughts away. It was better not to think of Mutti at the moment.

Simon returned with the coffee, and Tony drank his share, curving his fingers around the cup to feel its warmth. The thunder had stopped booming outside, but the rain was still drumming against the windowpanes. The windows were dark now—the sun had gone down and it was dusk.

_“You’ll see Mutti again…”_

Dym’s words came back to him. They had been spoken on a spring afternoon in the drawing room of the two old cousins, Olive and Basil, at Orrington-Magna, where Tony had gone after his final journey.

He clenched his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Why was he thinking of Mutti so much tonight? Was it because of warm firelight, and the family gathered round, reminding him of the long ago pre-war days when Mutti and Vater and Tante Bettina’s family had gathered around the hearth and sung old folk-songs?

How different the English were, in their family gatherings! Even the most boisterous Britisher seemed to have such an innate reserve—in their expressions, their sense of humour. Tony had become accustomed to it after three years; in many ways it suited him better than the old, effusive German ways had.

 _If I were to see Mutti again, it will not be the same,_ he realized. There had been too many changes. He had seen too much; he could not go back to being blind.

He watched the dancing tongues of flame—yellow and orange—in the fireplace and thought back to the very first English fire he had sat by. It had been a driftwood fire, in Dym’s room at the hotel. He had sat warily by it, reflecting fearfully on the words, “ _It’s Tony._ ”

Tony had hated those words for a long time, and hated the firm, resolute voice of the speaker even more. He had spent a very long time hating Dym as much as he could. Dym was not easy to despise, but Tony had tried his best. He had done everything he could to make Dym angry, and had not succeeded. He winced at the memory of certain transgressions: a light left on during an air-raid, which had cost the family five pounds—the words _Heil Hitler_ carved in Dym’s priceless old desk.

 _Mr. Bland was furious with me for that,_ he thought, and decided that Mr. Bland perfectly personified what Tony’s Tante Bettina had always said spitefully of the English.

It was well for him that the Inglefords did not fit Tante Bettina’s description; they were very different. That was what had partially convinced Tony that being English was not the worst possible fate—though most of the convincing was due in particular to Dym.

_Being English like them is something to be proud of._

“You’re awfully quiet, young Anthony,” James said, coming over to sit by him.

Tony shrugged, too much of an Ingleford himself to betray such flattering thoughts to another member of the family. “There’s enough noise already,” he said wryly, with a glance at Ginger.

Jim chuckled. “You’re one to talk—if I recall, there was a time when you made as much noise as any of us!”

Tony elbowed him, remembering a time in church when he had sang _Deutschland über alles_ at the top of his voice. He was not entirely sure that Margaret had ever forgiven him for that, although he had been a meek enough congregant ever since. “I wasn’t complaining,” he grumbled.

“I know, I’m just ragging a little,” Jim said, smoothing down his untidy red hair. “Don’t mention it to Phemie, Tony—but I was hoping for the dinners ‘round Easter to be a bit more…well, you remember what Porgy used to call them. ‘Poor relations’ to what we had before the war.”

“Porgy is always so concerned with his food,” Tony agreed, rather cuttingly. “They are coming in a few days—did you know?”

Jim nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It’s been over a year since they left—feels as odd as anything, doesn’t it? They were here for so long.”

 _Too long_ , thought Tony, but he only nodded too.

“Porgy wants to stay here and study at Oxford with me; at least, that’s what he wrote in his last letter.”

“What about Mary and Mousie?” Tony asked, stricken with sudden fear. He did not like the prospect of an extended visit from Mousie, who was still uncertain as to whether Tony had really abandoned his German sympathies or not.  She was always telling him how fortunate it was that he “had not given into his worst self,” and then peering closely at him to see if he really _had._

James, it seemed, shared some of his feelings. He shuddered. “No, I don’t think Mary and Mouse will be staying too long—they like India too well.”

“Then they had better stay there, hadn’t they?” Tony suggested hastily. “It seems to suit them so much better.”

James grinned. “And it suits _you_ better to have them there too, eh?”

Tony shot him a sidelong smile. “Perhaps.”

“Well, there’s better news than cousins,” Jim said, after a pause. “Dym’s coming—jolly old Dym! It feels like forever since he was home. It’s peace-time, but his leaves feel farther and farther apart.”

Privately, Tony felt that it was longer than forever since Dym had visited, but he did not say so. “I shall be very happy to see Dym.”

James’ green eyes followed the flickering spires of flame. “He’s bringing a friend with him, Ginger said.”

Tony was immediately interested.  He liked Dym’s friends. “Which friend? Is it Paddy? Or Taffy? Or Kittredge?”

Jim shifted in his chair, as though he was not sure how to answer Tony’s question. Tony did not see how this could be; it had been a very simple question. “None of them,” he said at last, slowly. “Didn’t Phemie mention it to you?”

“No,” said Tony, a trifle on his dignity. He did not like feeling that he had been kept in the dark.

James’s arched eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Well. It’s not that kind of friend…it’s different.”

Evidently it was different, thought Tony, or else I would have already understood. “Why are you being so close about it?”

“I’m not being close,” Jim argued, but his tone had turned absentminded.

“Is it an American friend?” Tony pressed, still curious and more than a little wary.

“I suppose so.”

Try as he might to ply him with questions—and Tony was past master in the art of questioning—no more information could be gotten out of Jim for the rest of the evening.

* * * *

Tony awoke early the next morning, even though the only sunlight that found its way to him was through the open door into Dym’s room. Tony’s little paneled room—the secret door to which he had found long ago—had no windows.

Still, the pale golden beams of the sun managed to slip in, tugging at his sleepy eyelids and bringing him into the waking world.

The storm had passed, and there were a few brave songbirds chirping merrily at the window which was at one end of Dym’s long room.

Tony glanced hastily around it, making certain that the twins had not spoiled yesterday’s tidying. He did not enjoy housework, but this was for Dym, and so Euphemia had not been very surprised when he volunteered to wax and polish the floors, and to put the rest to rights.

Tony dressed quickly, and sat down in the old black chair to put on his socks and shoes. The chair, like most of the other items of furniture in the room, had a memory attached to it. Tony had once hidden behind it and unintentionally eavesdropped on a family conclave; a conclave in which Dym had talked about a choice between good and evil—between two swords.

_“I shall never choose Chrysaor!”_

After it was over, Tony had hurled those words at Sally, clinging—as he had until long afterward—to the black sword _Balmung,_ the sword of conquest from the _Nibelungen Lied._

 _“That’s the very sword Germany’s using today,”_ Dym had said. Tony had refused to believe him, but he had been right. Dym was always right about such things.

In the end, Tony _had_ chosen Chrysaor. That was why everything was different now—that was why seeing Mutti could not be the same.

When Dym came home, Tony would tell him some of these things. Dym would understand—Dym alone could help him to see again that he had made the right choice.

Of course, Tony knew that he had done right. But knowing and seeing were too different things. Had not the hymn on Sunday said that Christians walked by faith and not by sight? Tony thought that his predicament was very much the same.

He needed Dym to show him how to see.

There was a racket of pounding on the door, and Tony threw it open. Simon and Judy tumbled in excitedly.

“Tony,” said Judy, “Euphemia wants you to come down and gobble breakfast down, and then help us all clean.”

“If your constitution isn’t too delicate,” Simon needled, but Judy’s position as speaker was not to be usurped. “We have to clean the whole Priory before Dym gets here,” she explained.

“I don’t see why,” Simon complained, returning the “face” that Tony had made at him for the constitution comment. “We didn’t clean for Ginger.”

Judy looked as comically wise as an owl. “This is _different,_ remember?”

 _Different._ James had said the same thing, and Tony was beginning to be worried. All his family was concealing something from him, and the knowledge was unpleasant.

 _I can be trusted,_ he thought sulkily, and shooed the twins away so that he could finish his morning preparations.

As he ventured downstairs, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. Dark brown hair—blue-gray eyes—and a pale, serious face that looked very much like Dym’s. Yes, Tony thought with satisfaction, he looked the most like Dym. It was one distinction that none of the others could claim, for all their secrets.

“Tony!” Euphemia pounced on him as soon as he entered the hall. Her hair was tied back in an old familiar scarf, and she looked a trifle harried. “Be a darling, won’t you, and don’t dawdle at breakfast? There’s porridge and crumpets.”

He nodded and made his way to the dining room, dodging the bustle and flurry about him. Sally was dusting madly, and James had been stationed at the kitchen sink, helping Betsey with the breakfast dishes.

Tony ate his breakfast in what he felt to be undue haste, and dropped his plate off in the kitchen, where Euphemia met him with a bundle of fresh linen.

“Make up the spare room bed please, Tony dear—” she ordered, and then whirled off to make Simon and Judy tidy the sitting room.

Tony was puzzled. There was no doubt that the spare room bed—which had once been Richard’s—was to be made up for the mysterious friend, but he did not know why the friend had to be so luxuriously treated. Plenty of Dym’s friends had stayed over before, but they were content with a sofa or cot—or even the floor, in the case of Paddy the Irishman, who said that he didn’t trust English hospitality.

He chose to withhold his questions, however; they would only display his ignorance. Instead, he stumped up the stairs to Richard’s old room, where he proceeded to make the bed as well as he knew how. The billowy sheets reminded him of when he used to room in the dormitory-like attic with James and Simon and Porgy, when he had first come home.

 _Home._ The White Priory was his home. It was still a somewhat new thought, but not an unpleasant one. At any rate, home was no longer in Germany.

Tony finished making up the bed and made his way downstairs so as not to attract attention. If he were quiet, he might not be requisitioned for housework again.

Judy caught sight of him, however. “Tony, the rest of the family is working—you mustn’t sit around,” she said. Tony thought that she was far too imperious when speaking to someone who was two years her elder, but it was plain that Judy did not care about matters of age and familial position.

“Where is Thomas?” he asked, scanning the crowd of hustling relations. Tall, silent, benevolent Thomas did not appear to be among them.

“He drove down to the station, to pick up Dym,” Judy explained, glad to be able to give information. “Dym’s train was due half an hour ago.”

Tony had not known this, and was piqued. Had it not occurred to Thomas that there were some people who would have very much liked to meet Dym? Apparently it had not.

“They’ll be here soon,” Judy said, growing impatient at Tony’s idleness. “You’d better get about something, before Margaret catches you.”

Tony continued his descent at a leisurely place, making it clear to Judy that she was not mistress of his movements. He strolled as slowly as he dared into the sitting room, where Simon was watching eagerly at the window.

“They’re here!” he crowed, racing towards the kitchen to tell Euphemia.

Tony felt excitement surge up within him as he ran to the hall. He strained to see through the glass-paned front door, trying to catch the first glimpse of the tall, slight figure in Air-Force blue that he had been waiting for those three months that felt longer than forever.

At last, able to bear it no longer, he threw open the door—and stopped short. Dym _was_ coming up the walk, smiling, but Tony was not looking at him. He was looking instead at the mysterious _friend_ beside him—a small, slender person in a brown skirt suit with a felt hat over her wheat-colored waves of hair. Tony watched her from the doorway, frozen.

He understood now why this friend was different.


	4. On the Hilltop

Tony stood very still in the doorway. He watched the rest of the family swarm out around him to meet Dym, but everything had grown distant, as though it were in a dream. The cobblestones of the walkway seemed to wobble before his eyes.

Their voices floated back to him. “This is Molly,” he heard Dym’s voice saying.

Tony heard the rest of the family introduced. He did not like to hear the friendly exchanges; they grated on him. Ginger said, “About time, old man!” and Dym shook his head.

Molly was smiling and laughing with the family. Tony could feel a cold hand clutch at his throat. It made it hard to breathe. It was easiest to push the feeling away and let anger take its place. So this is what the family had not thought him able to hear, was it? The injustice of it stung him. They thought him high-strung, did they? Vengefully, Tony decided to show them how high-strung he could be.

He tried to turn, but his feet felt rooted the ground. The whole family was talking to Molly at once, but she was no longer listening to them. She was looking at Tony, with a questioning look in her eyes. They were large eyes; gray, with a greenish tint. Tony knew that she was wondering why he had not come down to speak to her. It pleased him that she could feel the sting of his rejection. He waited, watching the beginnings of a hurt rise in her eyes. The hurt satisfied an ugly feeling in him, but he would not own to himself that it _was_ an ugly feeling.

But now Dym was looking at him too. Tony did not have to think twice to know that he could not endure the steady, keen gaze of those blue-gray eyes so like his own. He turned on his heel and ran back into the house, letting the door fall shut behind him with an echoing boom. He knew that he left startled silence behind him.

Sneaking out the back door, away from the glances of prying eyes, Tony spent a long time wandering over the downs, scuffing up the matted grass and glowering at the budding treetops. It was not until the White Priory was a square spot in the distance that he finally sank down on a dry hillock and wrapped his arms around his knees.

He stared out across the landscape. He had once believed England to be a bleak, barren place, but he now knew that even in the dead of winter it was not bereft of beauty. At the moment, in the waning days of March, between the winter snows and the green of late spring, the countryside looked as though it had been touched by the soft gray brushstrokes of a painter.

It was better to muse on the world around him than on the storm that was raging within. If he examined his own feelings too closely, he would have to admit that he was acting childishly.

Here on the hillside, that could be kept at a safe distance. When he returned home—and he thought he might not have if he had not promised Dym never, never to run away again—the twins (and other sundry family members) would tell him very bluntly what they thought of his behavior. Those who did not say what they thought would certainly look it.

Tony almost would have preferred the words to the looks.

“It is not my fault,” he said aloud. His voice was small in the great openness. “If the others had not treated me like a child, then I would not have…would not have…” He realized that he did not know exactly what he had done. He had only turned away without greeting a guest. It was not so great an offense; surely Molly had enough people to greet her. One or two extra siblings did not matter.

_But is this how you repay Dym?_

Tony felt a twinge of guilt. His rudeness must certainly have been an occasion of embarrassment to Dym—or it would have been had not Dym always borne everything that Tony heaped on him with unequaled patience.

Still, undoubtedly, Dym had not deserved this. Tony had drawn conclusions and acted upon them. He had not waited, as a prudent person might have done, and asked Dym any questions about the matter.

What the matter was in the first place was a conundrum that Tony could not easily solve. It had something to do with the fact that the whole family had been so close about Dym’s mysterious friend; it had something to do with Ginger’s comments at the dinner table of Dym “settling down”; it had something to do with how very pretty and kind Molly had seemed. What had once been only a very hazy fear in Tony’s mind was now sharpening into a very probable, very awful reality. Suddenly, it seemed terribly likely that Dym would “settle down” after the war—why had not Tony foreseen this, and planned accordingly? Perhaps he could have prevented it…could have tried to dissuade Dym…

But the truth—the cold truth—was that Dym was very much master of himself, and none of Tony’s dissuasive efforts, however valiant, could ever change Dym’s mind once he was set on a course of action. Tony could feel tears stinging his eyelids—or perhaps it was merely the chilling wind. He had not remembered to take his pullover with him; he was wearing knickers, and the still-wintery wind was cold. It nipped spitefully at his ankles and seemed to speak to him in a little, whistling, malicious voice.

 _“Nothing…nothing you can do,”_ it shrilled. _“Nothing you can do to keep Dym from leaving…”_

Tony glared up the bare tree-tops, which the wind was shaking in its devilish laughter. If Tony could have caught the wind, he would have strangled it, but the wind was not something one could take hold of and change.

He heard a crackling of grass behind him, and wondered who had come up to interrupt his self-pitying reverie. Perhaps it was James…perhaps it was Sally. But as the footsteps drew nearer, he knew that there was only one person whom it could be.

From the corner of his eyes, Tony saw the blue-clad figure sit down beside him. They sat in silence for a while. Then Dym said quietly, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Tony stared at his hands, which were clasped around his knees. Both hands and knees were purple from the cold. At last he said, “There’s nothing to tell about.”

He could feel Dym looking at him.

Slowly, Tony turned his head to meet his brother’s gaze. There was no trace of reproach in Dym’s eyes—no sign that he was either affronted or embarrassed.

Tony opened his mouth to begin, and everything tumbled out in tangled bits. “Nobody told me anything—Ginger said you would settle down—Phemie made everyone clean like mad—I don’t want you to go away forever…” the words choked off, and Tony stared downwards again, painfully aware of how laughable and confused it all sounded, out in the open.

But Dym did not laugh or misunderstand. He only said, calmly, “Think it’s as terrible as all that?”

“Yes,” muttered Tony. Yet Dym seemed so serene about it that he began to wonder. “I don’t know,” he admitted, after a pause.

“Tony,” said Dym, very gravely, “I want you to listen to me, very carefully. I would never do anything so serious—so important, on a whim, without making sure that everyone in the family knew about it.”

“Even me?”

“Especially you.”

“But Ginger said…” began Tony.

A familiar twinkle showed in Dym’s eyes. “Ginger’s a blockhead. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

It was true; he had. Tony only nodded. “You won’t go away without telling me beforehand?”

“I won’t,” said Dym.

Tony felt the tight feeling release a little. “After all, I’m your duty, aren’t I?”

“You are indeed,” Dym nodded, with a wry grin. “Although, you have been a bit easier these last couple years—no more traipsing over the country in the middle of February.”

Tony smiled at the many memories that the words conjured up. Then he frowned. “I’m very sorry, Dym.”

“For what?”

“For not being…polite, at the door.” Tony blushed.

“She doesn’t mind,” Dym assured him. The twinkle was showing again.

“But the rest of the family…”

“Don’t mind them. They won’t make a peep about it, I promise.”

Tony was relieved. The twinkle in Dym’s eyes, the quiet, unshaken sound of his voice—it all reminded him how much Dym could be depended on.

Something still remained to be asked, however. “Dym…”

“Yes, old man?”

“What—what is Molly?”

Dym kept a straight face. “Human, I believe. Shall I ask her?”

Tony shot him a sidelong glare. “You know what I mean.” He did not really mind Dym’s teasing.

“She’s just a friend, Tony. I met her in New York.”

“But she came all the way back with you, for a visit…”

A faint smile slipped onto Dym’s face. “That makes her a very good friend, then, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tony agreed grudgingly. _Too good,_ he thought.

Dym, as usual, could tell what he was thinking. It was, as Tony had once observed, a very English trait, and Dym was more English than most in this regard. He put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s just friends for now. I’ll always be square with you, Tony.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Tony permitted himself a smile as they got up and began to make their way back down the hill. The pale spring sunlight seemed brighter than it had a few moments ago. Dym had put his mind at rest on the subject—as usual, he had managed to show Tony how silly he had been without making him feel silly at all.

He could see the White Priory drawing a little nearer—there were wisps of smoke wafting from the chimneys. All at once he remembered Sally’s fireside poem. “Dym?”

“What is it?”

“Do you know a poem about firesides? Sally said that you did.”

Dym looked thoughtful. “Perhaps she meant, _‘In happy homes he saw the light, Of household fires gleam warm and bright._ ’”

That sounded right, but Tony did not answer. He was thinking of _“happy homes,”_ and how little he had contributed to the happiness of his own home that very morning.

“What should I do now?” he asked dismally.

Dym pondered the question for a moment. “There’s only one thing I’d like to ask you to do, Tony.”

“What?” Tony inquired, a bit warily. The straightforward look in Dym’s eyes suggested that the “thing” might be a challenge.

“Give her a chance. Half a chance.”

Tony squirmed a little; it was the very last thing that he wanted to do, but after all—it was for Dym. “I shall be polite to her while you are home,” he conceded carefully.

Dym smiled. “Fair enough,” he said.


	5. Molly

When Tony and Dym returned from the hillside, it was nearly tea-time. Simon and Judy’s eyes were wide and inquisitive, and it took all of Tony’s self-control (and some knowledge of Dym’s) to keep from squirming under their curious gaze. Had Porgy or Mary or Mousie been there, they would have made remarks in unpleasant whispers. But India, fortunately, was at a convenient distance.

Dym kept his hand on Tony’s shoulder as they walked into the dining room, and that helped. Euphemia was setting the tea table, and she and Thomas and James and Sally all showed by their demeanor that nothing had happened to upset them. Margaret looked a bit suspicious, however, and Ginger raised an eyebrow with an amused expression.

Tony sighed. He’d been discussed.

Cautiously, he slid into a chair that was tucked nearly behind the door, to avoid the benevolence or the censure (whatever the case might be) of his family.

“I’m afraid there isn’t any grand spread, Dym,” Euphemia was saying. “Some of the rationing has gotten worse than ever.”

“I shan’t mind,” Dym assured her. “If you’ve any plum pudding, that would be capital. I couldn’t find it anywhere in New York, and they all looked at me as though I was raving mad to be asking for such a thing. At one place they told me to come back at Christmas, in hopes of finding something similar.”

There was laughter which Tony was still too pensive to join in. Sally said, “What’s it like in New York, Dym? I wish you’d brought me back a fashion magazine.”

“I wouldn’t count on Dym for that, but I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know about our fashions, even if it isn’t much,” said a new voice. An American voice that was, though Tony begrudged the admittance, a pretty voice.

Molly had come in, probably after freshening up in the very guest room that Tony had unwittingly prepared.

 _Had I known it would be_ you, _I would have put a frog in the bed,_ he thought childishly, and then remembered, shamefacedly, his promise to Dym.

Molly’s eyes fell on him for a moment, but she didn’t allow her gaze to linger. Whether she was shy, or offended, or merely trying to be kind, Tony didn’t know and told himself that he didn’t care. Whatever it was, she quickly moved forward to help Euphemia with the tea things, setting the places all wrong and laughingly explaining how they didn’t have tea-time in America.

“No tea?” Simon was appalled, and though the rest of the family was too old and well-mannered to say so, Tony could read shock on their faces as well.

“It must be a hungry place, then,” Thomas said, with his slow smile.

Molly smiled in return. “Oh, but we eat so much at the other meals that even the most English of Englishmen found it somewhat bearable.” Here, she shot a playful glance at Dym, who vowed that a tea-less afternoon was still rather awful.

Tony almost wished that he could join in the comfortable banter that went on—almost felt himself more favorably inclined towards golden hair and gray-green eyes—until he chanced to see Dym surveying the same sight with sudden, unguarded admiration.

It was only for a moment, but a moment was all it took for the cold hand to clutch at Tony’s throat again, for the jealous laughter to ring in his ears once more. He drew his knees up defensively and tried to make himself even more invisible in his corner seat. This Molly—who was winning everyone’s affections with an ease which rivaled Tony’s best charm—would find no favour with him after all.

_I will not like her. I will not give her a chance, or half a chance._

Again, he found himself thinking of Mutti—of Mutti’s smile and charm, of Mutti’s undivided attention. Mutti had always put him first. Mutti would never have left him.

But then, Mutti would never have saved him, either.

“Spitfire, you’re awfully quiet,” Ginger teased. Tony stiffened. He didn’t usually mind Ginger’s ragging, but he had no desire to be brought into the spotlight at present. After what had happened at the door, the family would all nod knowingly at anything he did, whether he spoke or was silent. He could feel their eyes on him, staring and studying in very much the same way as the goldfish in the bowl by his bedside had done in his earliest days at home. It had swum round and round and mocked him with a flat, pitiless expression.

Of course, his family were not fishes, at least not all the time. Some of them were trying to be kind. But he didn’t want any attention—kind or otherwise. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted Molly to return to the strange country of America where they didn’t serve tea or plum pudding. He wanted Dym to be his again.

Ginger tried again. “Oh, come off it, Tony. It’s not the end of the world that—”

“Ginger,” broke in Dym’s voice—calm and firm, but with a note of command that Tony knew very well—“Don’t.”

Ginger didn’t.

A brief silence followed, which Euphemia broke by calling them to the tea table. The tension that had hung in the air for a moment simmered into nothing, which Tony noted almost bitterly was not unusual for his family. The English, never holding onto one thought long enough to sustain a feeling. The world could turn inside out, but as soon as it had righted itself they wouldn’t remember for more than two minutes.

Tony stopped the scornful thought short. _The English?_ Had he—had he fallen back into being German again?

“Tony, won’t you come and have some tea?”

Euphemia’s gentle voice broke into his reverie and he rose a little reluctantly to join his boisterous family.

Whether she wanted to or not, Molly had become the center of conversation, with everyone from Thomas to the twins bombarding her with questions. Even Margaret broke in occasionally with some terribly practical inquiry about the availability of wool yarn or the scarcity of new shoes.

Tony alone was silent and overlooked, and though he loathed being indebted to his enemy he knew that it was in some part because Molly was keeping the attention away from him. She asked and answered questions cheerfully, but never directed anything at Tony. He supposed he should be grateful, but somewhere between supposing and actually _being_ , there was a barrier he could not bring himself to break.

“Tony.”

He turned to see Sally’s pointed face and bright green eyes looking searchingly at him.

“What?” Tony fingered the table-cloth, which had a spot on it from the time that Simon had knocked the gravy boat over.

“S’everything alright?”

Tony nodded shortly, not feeling particularly keen to join in conversation, though Sally would never be anything but kind. “Yes,” he said briefly.

Sally did not pursue the subject, and Tony did not encourage further questioning. He ate his meager tea in silence and slipped away from the table at a moment when the din of an Ingleford meal had grown especially raucous.

The invitingly quiet clink of teacups drew him towards the drawing room where the three elderly aunts lived. They took their tea alone, and sometimes Tony brought away their trays. Aunt Addie smiled at Tony. She had wise blue eyes and a kind, crumpled face.

“Hello, Anthony.”

“Hello, Aunt Addie.”

“Do sit down, dear. There’s a few biscuits left if you should fancy a bite. Growing boys are always so hungry.” The other aunts nodded knowingly at this. Tony sat down, a trifle shyly, and nibbled at a biscuit. It was faintly sweet, and he noticed then that he had not paid attention to what he had eaten at the family tea. It might have been paper cakes, for all he had known or tasted.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“So much noise, with the boys home,” Aunt Addie observed after a moment, sipping her tea. She smiled complacently. “Not that I mind, to be sure. They’re dear young men. But you and I, we’re not so fond of the ruckus—are we, Tony?”

Tony shook his head to show that he agreed with her, though he knew full well himself that his own discontentment had very little to do with the noise and very much to do with something—someone—else. It was not likely, however, that Aunt Addie would understand or sympathize. Aunts were all very good in their way, but there were troubles beyond their comprehension. Tony considered it wiser to eat another biscuit than to pour out his troubles, if troubles they were. After all, Dym had done his best to set Tony’s mind at ease. Surely if Dym said something was alright, it was alright.

But Dym had looked admiringly at Molly.

Tony flicked a crumb off of his napkin onto the spotless carpet and then glanced guiltily up at Aunt Addie to see if she would criticize his manners. No doubt she would think it a boyish, careless thing to do.

But Aunt Addie said nothing to him. Instead she stirred herself and smiled at someone in the doorway. “Do come in, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” said a pleasant, American voice.

Tony stiffened. He had sought the refuge of the aunts’ room to avoid Molly, yet here she was again to interfere. She was as troublesome and inescapable as the tear on his school uniform sleeve, which Euphemia had clucked over the morning before.

“I just had to meet you,” Molly was saying, with a smile in her tone that grated on Tony’s nerves by its very sweetness. The biscuit that he had enjoyed a moment before felt dry in his mouth. “Dym told me all about the three lovely aunts who live here.”

Aunt Addie returned the smile. “And we’ve heard all about you, dear.”

Tony felt deeply aggrieved. How had he been kept in the dark so thoroughly and so ignominiously? Even three ancient aunts had known of Molly’s coming. Doubtless Porgy knew too—Porgy, who wasn’t even there! He felt foolish for not solving the puzzle himself, and hurt for being so entirely shut out. Why had the whole family turned against him? It could not be that—that Dym had formed the plan—

Surely not—had not Dym promised to always be “square” with him? He tried to imagine how Dym would laugh off his petty accusation, say “Beastly unfair of you, Tony—what have I done to deserve such suspicion?” But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the creeping sensation of uncertainty…the question. Had Dym thought him too high-strung as well?

“Tony.”

He was startled to find Molly speaking to him. Her voice was quiet, and they were relatively alone—the three aunts had returned to their tea. He felt the desire to retreat and hide, but that would be childish. He pressed cold hands on his knees and felt a few crumbs dusting them. Aunt Addie’s rugs would suffer for this day.

“I…I know that things got off on the wrong foot, but I think it’d be keen if we could get introduced properly.”

Tony did not reply, though he himself did not know whether his silence was stony or merely uncertain.

Molly tried again. “Dym has talked about you so much, and always the nicest things. I’ve been longing to meet you.”

 _“Dym never mentioned you,_ ” Tony wanted to say, but as soon as the thought popped into his head he flushed under the imagined steady gaze of his elder brother, and was reminded of his promise. He lifted his eyes up a little so that Molly would not feel completely snubbed.

“I am Tony,” he said. “There, we have met.”

Molly smiled, a real, bright smile. “Thanks,” she said. “Now we can be friends, I hope.”

Once more Tony did not answer. Dym had not made him promise that. 


	6. Family at the Fireside

"Dym,” said Judy, “Are you going to keep at flying, now that the horrid war is over?”

Tony pricked up his ears. They were gathered in the sitting room, after tea, and as usual, the adoring younger members of the family were grilling Dym with questions.

The adoring younger members of the family were composed of Simon and Judy, and Sally upon occasion. Their number might (and often enough, did) include Tony as well, but he had holed himself in another convenient corner and was observing his betrayers with what he hoped might be perceived as the bitterest of scorn. No one, of course, perceived it—the Inglefords were too obnoxiously pleasant and oblivious for that. Molly might have noticed it, but she was beside Euphemia and was too busy commenting on her knitting to observe the baleful glances of younger persons. His only comfort was that Molly and Dym were almost as far apart as they could be, since she had been offered the favored seat by the fire whilst Dym had relegated himself to the old broken down easy chair that had been lovingly abused by all and sundry over the course of many years.

This distance ought to have satisfied Tony, just as the fact that Simon and Judy and Sally had flocked all around Dym to hang on his every word and keep him effectually engaged should have set him more at ease. But jealousy was not an easily contented companion, and every little glance, however casual, exchanged between Dym and Molly was a cruel thorn to jab and mock him.

Yet even scorn, acrimonious as it might be, was forgotten when Judy, who was perched on the arm of Dym’s chair, posed the fateful question. Though she had put it simply, it was not merely about flying—it was about whether Dym would stay in the R.A.F. If he did not…but Tony, for all his tortuous musings on the thought, did not know how to finish that sentence.

The whole family seemed to pause for a moment in their cheerful and constant buzz. Even Margaret, who had knitted through many an air-raid, set down her needles with an expectant _click._

Dym assumed his usual expression of quiet thoughtfulness for a moment before he answered. It seemed a very long time to Tony. Then Dym said, “I don’t think so, Judy.”

There was a hush that followed. Tony allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and cast a glance in the direction of Molly. He regretted it an instant later, for though her expression had not betrayed her, her face was a little paler and it was clear that she was as interested in Dym’s answer as the rest. She has not the right to be, thought Tony, with some peevishness. Had it been his earlier days at the White Priory, he would have gotten revenge by burying a dead mouse in her luggage or some other such mischief, but those days were past.

Then again, if it had been his early days at the White Priory, he would not (or would have told himself that he did not) care about Dym’s comings or goings.

“What are you going to do then, Dym?” Euphemia asked, taking up her knitting again, very calmly.

Euphemia was a brick, but sometimes, Tony reflected, she was entirely too complacent.

“I’m not sure yet,” Dym said gravely, and his eyes met Tony’s. It didn’t make the fear of the unknown quite go away, but it reminded him once more that Dym would always, always be fair. He would not keep Tony in the dark—and it was then that Tony knew that it had not been Dym’s plan to keep the news of Molly from him. Good old Dym, he thought, and then remembered, guiltily, how little he had done to deserve any of it.

Ginger ruffled his flaming hair. “What about the law, old boy?”

“You’ve certainly a knack for making people agree with you, Dym,” said Sally, propping her chin on her hands and gazing at him admiringly.

Dym’s eyes twinkled. “Now there’s a compliment I’m not sure I like. A bit dangerous, eh?” 

“You can do whatever you like, Dym,” said Euphemia, finishing a row. “But you’re always welcome to stay here after you’re out of the R.A.F.”

Tony’s heart leapt. Dym—here? It was enough to make him forget gray-green eyes, casual glances, and the changes that loomed on the horizon like storm clouds.

Dym’s gaze sought out Thomas, the eldest, who was speaking with a lately-returned from school Mortimer. “Well now, Tommy, what do you think?”

“Eh, what?” Thomas said, and then seemed to remember what had been said. “Of course, Dym. I could always use an extra hand around the Priory.”

“Yes, Dym, do!” cried Simon and Judy, and though Tony remained silent, he privately added his pleas to theirs.

Dym smiled at their exuberance, but his slim, able fingers toyed with one of the buttons on his coat as though he was not done thinking it all over. “I still have a few months left, at any rate. After that, I only want to be useful—and to find my own way rather than sitting by idly.” He paused, and then quoted, “‘ _Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.’_ I’m not afraid of having to do that, if need be. _”_

“You’re always so philosophical, Dym,” said Mortimer.

“That’s Churchill,” said Sally.

Ginger laughed aloud. “I’ll be the doctor, Dym the philosopher, and Jim the general academic. What a family!”

“ _Such_ a family, as can’t remember to finish their tea,” said Margaret, severely—but with more severity in words than in tone. “It will be cold for all your forgetfulness. Drink it up, all three of you silly, wasteful boys.”

Penitently, they drank, and Tony, realizing that he had forgotten his own tea as well, sipped it quickly. Margaret would scold him far more harshly if she thought that _he_ had wasted tea, but then, Margaret only had a soft spot for Dym and Mortimer. Renegade, formerly German younger siblings who had sung _Deutschland über alles_ to the tune of her own playing were not so favored.

“It’s rather dreadfully late,” said Euphemia suddenly, happening to glance at the clock. She rolled up her half-finished socks. “To bed, the lot of you!” She stood up and made a shooing motion with her hands. “I won’t have everyone catching a cold from sitting up late on April nights.”

“Not us, certainly, Phemie,” Ginger said, bristling at the very thought of being shooed.

She shook her head at him. “No, Ginger. I’ve given up on you and Dym long ago.”

“That’s comforting,” he teased, and Euphemia shook her knitting needles at him…though Tony knew that she was not really exasperated by Ginger’s antics. He was rather knowledgeable about the extraordinary reaches of Euphemia’s patience when it came to impudent younger brothers.

“I suppose I’ll go to bed too,” said Molly, as the older members of the family began to make their way towards the stairs as well. Tony supposed that he should be grateful that she had not leapt at the advantage to have a fireside chat with Dym and Ginger, who were the only ones intent on remaining, but then he remembered that rules were rules—even, it appeared, in America.

As she passed him, he felt her look at him—hesitantly, as though she was not sure what to say. He pretended that he had not seen her and turned away.

The family trooped loudly upstairs, but Tony trailed behind a moment, knowing that he ought to go but feeling extremely keen to hear what Dym and Ginger might have to say to one another.

“Come along, Tony,” said James, not unkindly. “They haven’t had a chance to talk for ages.”

Unwillingly, tempted to remain behind and indulge of one of his oldest faults—eavesdropping—Tony made his way upstairs, leaving his brothers alone by the fire.

* * * *

The flames glinted on the hearth, sending forth a very pleasing warmth and dancing golden reflections that crept playfully along the ceiling to the outward corners of the room, which, in Ingleford family fashion, was in a comfortable state of untidiness.

The two brothers sat across from one another, and in the dimly cozy shadows there was not so much difference between their young English faces than the light of day revealed. Both stretched out long legs towards the inviting warmth, and both seemed for a moment content to wander in pursuit of his own thoughts.

Ginger was the first to speak. “He’s an odd little bounder.”

“That’s not fair of you,” Dym said, with mild reproach. “Tony’s alright. You can’t for one moment forget what he’s been through.”

“Or what he’s put us through,” Ginger added wryly. “I know you’re uncommonly fond of him, and he’s not a bad chap when all’s said and done. But you mayn’t expect—even now—to find the rest of the family as soft when it comes to indulging his outbursts.”

Dym shook his head. “What happened today was hardly an outburst. If the lot of you hadn’t kept him in the dark, he wouldn’t have such a rough shock.”

“Molly’s hardly a rough shock.”

“She is to Tony,” said Dym, disregarding his brother’s teasing smile. “He’s had a hard time of it, even though things got vastly better after he made his choice. But I’m the one who got him into what some would consider a pretty bad row, and I’m the one who ought to stay by him.”

“He’s got the rest of us,” Ginger pointed out, ruffling his hair.

“Much good that does him.”

“Oh, come off it—now _that’s_ not fair!” exclaimed Ginger, aggrieved.

Dym smiled. “Maybe not. But he _is_ treated differently, and I wish that could be changed. His upbringing, his separation—none of that is his fault. I think the rest of us may be a little too comfortable in our perennial Englishness, not understanding what it would be like to have lost it, and some of us still look down on him, though we oughtn’t to.”

“You needn’t say ‘we,’ you know,” Ginger said, leaning forward to poke at the fire with unnecessary energy. “Everyone knows that _you’ve_ stuck by him, Dym. You’ve been awfully decent to Tony.”

Dym shrugged, as though his brother’s frank praise was undeserved. “I’m not a saint. You know me well enough to know that.”

Ginger chuckled, but with affection. “‘Fraid it’s true, you lazy bloke.”

The brothers lapsed into silence, and for several moments all that could be heard was the crackling of the flames and occasional whistle of the wind as it tugged at the corners of the sturdy old house. The fire threw light upon the two young faces, both of which were once more lost in thought. One might have reflected upon the oddness that they, who had once faced the Battle of Britain and the Battle of the Atlantic with unshakable determination, were now focused with as much quiet intensity upon the welfare of their rambling family.

Ginger, ever more restless than his elder brother, was the first to stir himself from his reverie. “Only you, old man.”

Dym’s blue-gray eyes still had a faraway look, and he did not immediately reply to Ginger’s remark. “Sorry, what?”

“Going a bit daft, aren’t you?” Ginger shook his head with a wink. “It’s just, well—hang it all, Dym, you’ve finally got yourself a girl and you’re _still_ worrying about poor old Tony!”

“I haven’t ‘got a girl,’” said Dym, gravely.

“Then what do you call Molly?”

“A friend.”

Ginger sighed, but he recognized defeat and did not pursue the subject. He only said, “You can’t be there for Tony forever, Dym. After all you’ve done, what can you possibly still owe him?”

“A great deal,” said Dym. “And I made him a promise, which I intend to keep.”

Ginger’s considerable curiosity was stirred. “What was the promise?”

But Dym only stared thoughtfully into the flames.


	7. Early in the Morning

The next morning Tony was again awakened by the pale, warm spring sunrays, which crept teasingly into his room and prodded him from his dreams. He dressed quietly, and tiptoed through Dym’s room, careful to step only on the sturdiest boards so that they might not squeak in protest. Dym was still sleeping—he must be tired, Tony knew…he often was, though he did not show it. Tony paused for a moment before he went through the doorway, noticing one of Dym’s hands, which had slipped over the side of the bed. Dym’s hands had always looked deceptively lean; Tony knew for a very certain fact that they were remarkably strong. A steely grip, had Dym. Tony knew also that those hands had steadily, without hesitation or fear, guided many a dangerous mission through enemy air. So many times, Dym had gone up without knowing if he would come down safely again. He had never shown any sign of having been frightened of that. Perhaps nothing frightened Dym, after all—and Tony had long suspected it to be so. Still, if Dym was not glad for his own sake, Tony was relieved that all of that was over—all the uncertainty, all of the sacrifices made by entering the great unknown.

The great unknown—whether it was a palpable space that could be entered into, or merely some misty realm of the imagination, Tony could not say. He only knew that his own great unknown was full of past ghosts, and that he had not the courage to meet them with Dym’s unshakable determination.

The family was beginning to stir as Tony made his way out of Dym’s room and towards the long, worn staircase. He heard doors creaking and footsteps beginning to stampede in the halls. Now, Tony knew, would come a clamor for washing and dressing that it would be just as well to avoid. He went downstairs, trusting that the kitchen would be empty and that he could snatch a bite to eat and perhaps even a cup of tea before the onslaught.

To his surprise, the kitchen was not deserted—instead, as he entered, he could see a slim figure with golden hair “put up” in a knot, sipping at a cup of tea.

Molly.

Instinctively, Tony drew back; he was shy of strangers, especially those whom he did not like. The idea presented itself to him briefly, that it was not really rational to dislike a stranger—for after all, was not one ignorant of a stranger? Was it not necessary to know about someone more extensively before judgment could be passed?

He felt a twinge of conscience. It had been less than a day since, and already he was trying to find a way to follow his promise to Dym in letter but not in spirit. He could well imagine the keen blue-gray eyes of his brother, mirroring his own, with an expression of patient reproach. Then again, perhaps they might not even be reproachful. Dym almost never admonished him; never scolded him. Tony could not recall, on any occasion, Dym displaying even a flash of temper towards him. It was an undeserved favor, he knew, but he tried to comfort himself with a reminder of the fact that he had never seen Dym angry at anyone else, either.

Was there _anyone_ who could incite Dym’s ire? Tony asked the question in his mind and then retreated from answering. There was one person…one person across the turbulent channel, one person who might make Dym angry.

Tony did not want to think of that at the moment. He allowed his mind to drift back to the present, observing his newest enemy standing calmly by the window frame and gazing outwards at a wet grey landscape that was slowly becoming tinged with green. In the moments before she realized that he was there, Tony took the chance to surreptitiously observe her, measure his chances of winning or losing this battle of wits, and then guiltily once more recalled his promise. Dym had a way of getting behind all his barriers and speaking directly to his conscience.

Molly jumped a little when she realized he was there. “Sorry, I get startled easily,” she said apologetically. She held her teacup rather gingerly, not in the same way that Tony and all the rest of the Inglefords held their cups. Perhaps Americans did not drink tea so frequently, or perhaps Molly did not really like tea but felt as though she ought to, being among the English.

“Good morning,” said Tony, speaking rather stiffly. Surely Dym could only ask for civility from him—friendliness was another matter altogether. _I am still giving her a chance,_ he told himself.

Molly smiled. “Oh, and I didn’t say good morning! I’m terribly sorry. You must think me very rude. I promise I’m not, it’s just that…well, I’m terribly silly in the morning. I’m just not an early-to-rise girl.” She stifled a yawn.

“I am not offended,” Tony said, more kindly than he would have expected of himself. He remembered, with an internal wince, what it had been like to be always looked at as different. He could clearly recall when the evacueés had said “We want to look at your German brother,” as though he were a particularly curious specimen who ought to be scrutinized and dissected with glances.

“I am glad! I would hope that—” she stopped short, suddenly, looking a little shy. Tony supposed she did not know what to say to him, lest he unexpectedly explode, like a delayed bomb. He found himself wondering what she had heard about him. He knew too Dym well to suspect him of saying anything unkind—even though there were plenty of unpleasant details about Tony’s past life that were perfectly true.

She did not continue the statement but instead, changed the subject to the innocuous one of breakfast. “Betsey made…porridge.” Molly motioned towards the pot that was staying warm upon the oven. “That _is_ what you call it here, isn’t it? Porridge?”

Tony had never thought of calling porridge anything else, in English at least. “What do you call it in the States?”

“Just oatmeal.”

Tony stared in disbelief. “But that is before it is cooked.”

She shrugged, with a little laugh. “I know.”

A little silence grew between them. Tony filled a bowl with porridge, feeling that he had been too open. He did not wish to give her the impression that he had become more accepting of her presence. For all he cared—or desired—she could return to the States as quickly as she had come. He retired into his shell and assumed the closed, slightly sullen expression that he had often used in his “German” days.

Molly seemed to take the hint and retreated as well, scrubbing up her porridge bowl and spoon. Once more, despite his careful indifference, Tony puzzled over her for a few moments. She was positively full of contradictions.

For one thing, she was dressed in the same way that Euphemia or Sally or Margaret dressed—well, perhaps not Margaret, who always dressed in dark colors. But Tony was surprised to find that she did not wear the flamboyant styles that everyone supposed Americans to like. He had read about Americans in many books; they were always being loud and boisterous, noisier even than the White Priory when it had been at its fullest in wartime. They were fond of saying “Howdy” and went about slapping other people on the back by way of greeting. Curiously, Molly had not done any of these things.

Perhaps the books were not right after all.

Tony frowned. He did not like to relinquish such a convenient idea of Americans; at present it suited him to think poorly of them. He felt a pinprick of guilt. Had he not also once found comfort in despising the English and all their ways? If Tante Bettina was to be believed, they were a vile race. But Tony no longer had any value for Tante Bettina’s opinions, especially those regarding turnip pudding and (of late) the habits of his countrymen. Would there come a time when, having surrendered to the wiles of this mysterious American, he would change his mind about that too?

He scraped at his porridge with a doleful sigh. It was for the best that he had not made any rash promises of letter-writing on this score, as he had once done to the Skipper of Ginger’s ship. Despite his mood, he could not help smiling at the remembrance of that letter, which Dym had read in warm amusement. Dym was not always grave. Tony liked to think of the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the half-smile that often played across his features. Tony found it as pleasant now as he once found it infuriating.

That that smile and twinkle should be directed at Molly, however, was an entirely different matter—and one that he still found infuriating indeed. He scowled over his remaining porridge, not caring whether or not he looked like Margaret, and spent the better part of five minutes trying to convince himself that he was not breaking his promise to Dym.

After a short interval, the more effusive portion of his family trooped in, calling loudly for breakfast and complaining of the rain. Tony had not really noticed that it was raining, and he was displeased. He had been hoping to steal Dym for a walk on the downs this forenoon, but now that was not to be. Venturing alone in a downpour was one thing; to expect an older and wiser person to do so as well was quite another.

“Good morning, Molly!” cried a chorus of voices, but only very few of those voices seemed to remember to greet Tony. To be sure, James and Sally took notice of his presence, and Euphemia slipped an arm around his shoulders for a moment, saying, “Morning, dear.” But as far as the rest of his relations were concerned, he might not have existed.

“Where’s Dym?” Ginger had asked the question—looking disheveled and still half asleep…though as loud as ever.

“Still sleeping,” said Sally. Tony might have answered it as well, but nobody asked _him._

“The lazy beggar!” Ginger shook his head. “At this hour? This is what comes of going into the Airforce. The Navy was strong! We never spent _our_ mornings lying around in such a shameful fashion.” He grinned. “I’ll go and wake him.”

“Oh, let him sleep,” Euphemia said, with a look that could not, thanks to her cheerful blue eyes, manage to be very severe. “He’s dead tired, Ginger—you know that. He works himself so hard.”

Ginger was disappointed. “You wouldn’t have showed such consideration to me,” he grumbled. He cheered up in an instant. “But why be down and out? It’s the Easter hols—and that’s enough for a chap! What shall we do today, Tommy?”

Thomas, who had slipped in unobtrusively, despite his size, deliberated with a sip of tea before answering. “It’s high time to be planting,” he said, in his slow, quiet way. “We could spend a day in the gardens.”

Ginger choked at the notion. “Oh, come off it—I meant doing something actually enjoyable! Gardening and all that rot…and in the rain? We’ll leave that for another day.”

“You _did_ ask for his thoughts, and what else did you expect him to say?” Margaret queried, limping towards the teapot. “Euphemia, why is everyone eating porridge and standing about in this fashion? I just passed Betsey in the hall—she’s serving a proper breakfast, as usual.”

Tony took this opportunity to remove himself and go to the dining room. If there was to be more breakfast, he would have it gratefully—but he would rather extricate himself from a family whose conversation had nothing to do with him. Oddly enough, he noticed, it did not have much to do with Molly either. She was standing by quietly, neither speaking nor being spoken too. Strange, Tony reflected, that they should have anything in common…even such a thing as being forgotten about.

“It’s the holidays, Margaret, everything’s topsy-turvy,” he heard Euphemia saying in her usual calm way, as he went out.

He crossed through the hall, and was surprised to meet Dym coming down the stairs, looking very much on leave without his uniform. In his civilian clothes, he looked as though he might be a student like Ginger, home from university—only not lazing about and complaining as much as Ginger did. He smiled at Tony. “‘Morning, Tony.”

“Morning.” Tony scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floorboard. He felt suddenly foolish, slinking off in such a discomfited way, so early in the morning, over something that no one else would think important. He did not wish to look foolish, and above all, not in front of Dym. He tried his best to conceal his mood.

Dym, unsurprisingly, was not in the least deceived. “You don’t look as though you’re very fond of the world at the moment—what’s the matter?” He managed to sound interested yet unruffled at the same time, as though whatever was wrong was not a burden to hear about, yet at the same time was not nearly so bad as Tony had thought it.

Still, he could not speak of it. Guilt overwhelmed him as he thought of his behavior thus far this morning, and of all his accompanying thoughts and internal explanations. He shrugged, trying to appear careless. “It is nothing. I am only tired, that is all.”

Though he would not look up, he could feel Dym’s perceptive gaze. “We’ll talk it over later, shall we? I thought that we might go out for a walk on the downs and into the village, if the rain lets up—or perhaps we shall be adventurous and go even if it doesn’t.”

For a moment Tony’s conflicted thoughts ebbed away as swiftly and cleanly as a receding tide. Dym had not forgotten the unspoken hopes of a younger brother after all. Dym would never forget such a thing.

“I would like that,” he said eagerly. To his own astonishment, he found himself smiling…yet perhaps it was not so astonishing after all. Dym’s smile was contagious.


	8. Unanswerable Questions

A walk with Dym could not come soon enough for Tony, who spent most of the forenoon traipsing over the house and listening aimlessly to fragments of other people’s conversations. The rain had lightened, but the sky was still dull and gray—at the edges of the sprawling wet fields the leaden clouds seemed almost to touch the ground.

Inside the White Priory was snug and warm as always, though here and there a draught of sharp, rainy air twisted its way through cracks and crevices to send a shiver down some unsuspecting person’s spine. Tony dug his hands into the pockets of his pullover and sunk down on one end of the sitting room divan.

Sally, at the other end, was scribbling something in an exercise book with her usual eager air. Tony watched with some interest as she fiercely crossed out a line or two, tugged at a strand of her wild red hair, or crinkled up her eyebrows as though deep in thought.

“What are you doing?” he asked at length, delicately. Sally was obviously engaged in something of importance, and he did not wish to disturb her.

She started a little and colored. “Oh, it’s just rot, really—some little thoughts of mine put down.”

“Poetry?” Tony guessed, catching a glance of shakily sketched-out stanzas.

She nodded, smiling. “Yes. But it doesn’t rhyme as well as I would like.”

Tony cast an appraising glance at her work. “I…” he had been about to say that he could help her, but then it remembered that it was best to conceal his love for poetry as much as possible. Ginger was here, after all; Porgy and Mary and Mousie _would_ be here far sooner than Tony would have liked—no, it was too much of a risk. “I am sure that it is good,” he finished instead, rather embarrassed at his own cowardice.

“Not very.” Sally ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it so that it stood out around her head in a flaming cloud. “But thanks awfully, Tony. You’re the only one who wouldn’t laugh.” She smoothed out a crumpled edge of her paper. “I don’t know what’s quite possessed me, but seeing as it’s the Easter hols…it just seemed like a jolly good time to try to do something artistic. After all, it’s too cold out to work in my garden.”

“Not everyone would laugh,” said Tony. “Dym wouldn’t. You might ask him, if you want help.”

“Dym _is_ very clever at this sort of thing,” Sally agreed. “But my verses—and really, they are hardly verses yet—are too silly for that.” She grinned, looking very much like James. “I’ll just have to drag along at my own pace. Will you read it when it’s finished?”

Tony considered, and decided that he could oblige Sally without revealing his secret. “Yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment, with the persistent scratching of Sally’s pen as the only sound. At length Tony heard the piano in the parlor. He started up, interested. Though assorted members of his family could play well enough, very few of them ever remembered to. Margaret alone practiced faithfully, but she played in a more staid and mechanical fashion than the whimsical measures that now were floating in the air. No, it must be Dym—only Dym could play like this. Tony made his way into the parlor, remembering the viola air he had written only two days ago, though the time felt much longer.

He had guessed rightly; it was Dym who sat at the old spinet, drawing forth a remarkably pleasant melody that was far more musical than Tony had thought possible from such an ancient and temperamental instrument.  He watched, fascinated, as Dym’s skillful fingers crossed the keys smoothly. Tony thought suddenly of Jacob, Dym’s friend who had died in the war…Jacob, who had been a brilliant pianist—always dynamic and vigorous in his playing. In that way he and Dym were very different—when Dym played it was quiet, unobtrusive, subtle. When Jacob had played, everyone had gathered round to listen—it was impossible to do otherwise. Yet listening to Dym and remembering Jacob, Tony could not decide whose playing he liked better.

Dym finished his song, and Tony was surprised to hear the sound of someone softly clapping. As the other listener moved into his line of vision, Tony felt a familiar tightness creeping into his throat, and he glared jealously from his post at the doorway, where he was, for the present, anonymous.

“That was lovely,” Molly was saying, as she rested her hands on the curving line of the upturned piano lid.

“Just a trifle,” Dym replied, with a smile. “It’s nothing compared to what someone who really knew anything could do.”

Molly’s smile managed to be at once shy and teasing. “You’re too modest, Dym. Is that an English sort of thing? We Americans are so puffed up.”

Tony thought this to be very true, but Dym only laughed. “English? I should say not. We’re every bit as proud and pompous as the rest of the world, if not more so. I’m afraid I can’t excuse myself from that lot—just ask any of the rest. The English aren’t known for their humility, nor yet the Inglefords in particular.”

Molly threw up her hands. “Alright, alright. I can see that you absolutely won’t allow me to cherish any of my fond thoughts about what you British would all be like. My friends back home will be so very disappointed when I tell them that, upon Wing Commander Ingleford’s honor, the British are no better than the Americans, despite your accents.”

“Our accents?” said Dym, and though he was turned from Tony’s line from view, Tony knew that there was a twinkle in his eye.

Molly’s cheeks flushed. “Well…yes. But come on now, I shouldn’t have stopped you in the middle of playing. Very rude of me.”

“Hadn’t I finished?” Dym teased, but he started a simple minuet all the same.

Tony shifted in his concealed position by the doorway. He knew very well indeed that he ought not to be there; if any of his other siblings, even the twins, came along, he would have a very deserved scolding. Somehow, though, he couldn’t pull himself away from the pleasant notes of Dym’s melody, or the way that Molly’s gaze seemed to constantly move from the humble spinet to the player who could bring such magic from it.

Tony turned away at last. Logic had won out at last; he decided that, if he wished to have that walk with Dym, he had better not try Dym’s patience by stealthily eavesdropping upon conversations not meant for his ears. It was as Tante Bettina said, too; eavesdroppers always heard unpleasant things about themselves. Dym and Molly  had not mentioned the rascally younger brother yet; but it was very probable that they would, and it was also probable that Molly would have some complaints for Dym. Tony was naturally curious, but he did not wish to hear if Molly thought ill of him. Though he would not own it, he held out a perverse hope that, despite all his rudeness, she might still think well of him…even if it was only a favor to Dym.

It was well that he left when he did, for not a moment later Euphemia walked briskly down the hallway, with an enormous basket of clean washing in her thin, strong arms. “Tony, dear,” she cried, when she saw him. “Won’t you please find Simon and Judy? I’ve been trying to chase them down for an hour at least. If they could hang this out in the kitchen, it would be one less task for Margaret and me.”

Tony nodded but sighed, not relishing the thought of dragging Simon and Judy away from whatever they were presently doing. The only comfort was that, with a direct sanction from Euphemia, he would be able to exert the authority over them which was not generally as respected as it should be.

The minuet ended, and Dym appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. “Is there anything the rest of us can do, Phemie? I know you’ve a terrible load, especially with Ginger and me being home—and lazing around shamefully, too.”

Euphemia smilingly shook her head. “Oh, Dym—you boys are never a burden when you’re home. But now that I think of it, someone really ought to go down to the market. We’re fresh out of butter, and the milk is getting low.”

“I’ll go,” Dym agreed promptly.

Euphemia handed him the ration book. “I would say take the car—it’s still raining,” she said, “But petrol is terribly scarce.” She sighed, before whisking off towards the kitchen and assisting Tony in his task by calling, “Simon! Judy!” in shrill tones.

Dym did not mind. “We’ll like the walk, shan’t we, Tony? There’s nothing wrong with getting a bit damp.”

Tony was pleased. “Nothing at all.”

“Now, go find Simon and Judy in double quick time,” ordered Dym. “The washing still has to be hung, if we want Euphemia to live until teatime!”

Tony scampered off, jerking his mackintosh off the hall peg as he went. As he turned the corner towards the stairs, he heard Dym say to Molly, “You don’t mind, do you?”

He stopped short, wondering if she would insist upon accompanying them. That would be dreadful—

“Not at all,” she said. “I’ll amuse myself very well.”

Tony breathed again.

Simon and Judy were found taking an old ship model that Thomas had given them to pieces, in the hope of rebuilding and “improving” it. Tony, who had once saved a model engine from a similar fate, felt justified in interrupting their destructive occupation and sending them, grumbling, to the kitchen. “Why aren’t you helping?” asked Simon, aggrieved.

“ _I_ am going to town with Dym,” said Tony, very much on his dignity.

The thing was almost too good to be true, and they were fairly out the door and walking down the lane before Tony was quite sure that it was happening.

The rain had lessened to a light but steady drizzle, and the countryside had a moist and spring-like smell. On the slender branches of young trees, tiny leaf-buds were beginning to unfurl. In the shallow puddles that pocked the lane, the rims of dead March ice were slowly whittled away by spattering drops.

“This may be all the walk we have, but we’ll make the best of it,” Dym said cheerfully. “You don’t mind the wet?”

“Not at all,” said Tony truthfully, but he was discomfited a moment afterwards when he recalled that Molly had said the same thing.

“ _For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it_ _rain_ ,” quoted Dym, looking up at the low-hanging clouds. “D’you know who said that?”

“No,” admitted Tony, wishing that he did.

Dym did not scold him for his ignorance; he never did. “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” he said. “An American poet.”

Tony felt suspicious at the mention of an American, but the name was known to him. “He wrote ‘The Ride of Paul Revere,’ about the American who warned all the towns that we were coming.”

“The very same,” said Dym, stopping to pluck a few damp pussywillows from a low-hanging bow. “Rather like our beacon poem, I’ve always thought.”

Tony’s brow wrinkled. “Is it?” He did not know if he liked the comparison.

Dym tucked the bedraggled tufts into his coat pocket, and a keen yet distant look crept into his blue-gray, English eyes. “I’ve always considered it so,” he said at last. “We’d like to think the Americans were a rowdy lot of rebellious farmers—and some of us think them so still. But their struggle for freedom was not so very different from those that England’s gone through over the years.”

“Do you think they were right, to rebel?” Tony pressed, not completely satisfied.

Dym laughed. “Now there’s a question for a lazy, rainy morning. I know you too well to think you’ll give me an inch till I’ve given you an answer.”

“I think you might,” Tony pleaded. “When we spoke of that war at school, they spent the whole time harping on the misunderstandings about virtual representation that the others said it was a wonder we made it to the battles of Lexington and Concord by half-term.”

Dym relented, with a twinkle in his eye. “Can’t say I’m an expert, but as I’ve said before, Mother England isn’t always right. We’ve been selfish and cruel and controlling, where we ought to have let be. It’s hard to reconcile such a thought with the England we’d like to believe in, I know. I _had_ to believe in the good of England these past years, doing what I did. And I do think, very truly—as you know, Tony—that in this past war, we were fighting for Right. But in the time of the American Revolution? I don’t know but that Britain was doing then what we just finished fighting against…reaching out greedily beyond her borders, trying to force other people who owed her no real debt to pay the price for her own indiscretions. It was a hard lesson for us, when the Americans won. Some say it was the first step towards our decline. But if decline means more humility, more sacrifice, and more resolution against evil, as we’ve done in the war against the Axis, then I don’t think it’s such a terrible blow after all.”

“Thanks,” said Tony. He was not just ready yet to think favorably of Americans, but there was something in Dym’s way—as there always had been—of quiet, earnest sincerity that made it hard not to agree with him.

They mounted a hilly bend in the road, and below them, the town of Greltham Saint Andrew’s was laid out before, draped in thin, rain-soaked mist.

Dym paused at the crest of the little hill for a moment, disregarding the rivulets of rain that ran off the shoulders of his coat. He turned and looked down at Tony, blue-gray eyes meeting blue-gray eyes. “There’s something on your mind that’s more than a history lesson,” he said. “Shouldn’t you like to have it out before we’re drowning in the bustle of marketplace?”

Tony nodded briefly. He was not certain if he had hoped that Dym would take notice of his brooding air, as he just had, or if he had wanted his own powers of concealment to be a blind to every perceptive eye. As it was, Dym was now aware—and had most likely been aware for some time now—that there was a storm brewing.

“Fire when ready, old chap,” said Dym lightly.

In the moments in which they began their descent down the mud-rutted road, Tony was deep in thought. The question had been knocking about for days in his mind as relentlessly as an unwelcome visitor, and yet when he tried to form it into a coherent sentence, into a question of his own, he could not find the words.

At length he said haltingly, “You told me—” He stopped short and tried again. “I was thinking—” Again, he paused. None of these faltering beginnings seemed stately enough for the grave matter he was about to put forth.

In all his stumbling, Dym did not forestall him, or say he knew what the question was, but Tony knew that he knew. A furtive glance at Dym’s face had told him so as plainly as spoken words could have.

Something about this understanding finally gave Tony the words he was searching so desperately for. They burst out in a steady rush, low but rapid. “When I came back, the last time, to Orrington-Magna, when I said I would not run away again…you said…you said that after the war was over—”

They had halted their walk once more, and Tony’s flow of words halted with it. Dym waited without making it seem as though he were waiting.

The words did not want to come, but Tony made them. “You said that you would take me to see Mutti again.” It was barely more than a whisper.

Though Tony knew that Dym had been expecting the question, he thought that his older brother’s face had gone a shade paler. But Dym’s voice did not betray any uncertainty. He said, quietly but firmly, “Yes.”

“The war is over,” Tony said. He hoped that that was enough.

Dym understood. “I will take you to see her, if you still wish to go.”

The statement seemed odd to Tony, and he opened his mouth to say, “Of course I do,” but he did not say it. Suddenly, he knew what Dym meant. He had changed—the world had changed—Mutti had changed. Would she still love him? Would he still be her _liebling,_ her darling Max? Or would all that—all the precious memories that he still cherished in spite of everything, would they too have faded away with the old life?

Dym seemed to read the thought, no doubt in the panic that had flashed suddenly through Tony’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was very, very gentle. “She will not have stopped caring for you—loving you, at least as much as she was capable of loving. But it will be different. She will want you to be the way you were before—hiding from the truth, dependent on her.  You can’t go back, not that way.”

It was true, Tony knew. He couldn’t be Max Eckermann, ever again. And he did not want to be, not even for Mutti. “But I do want to see her again,” he said. His voice sounded childish and pleading to his ears, and he was ashamed, even though he knew that Dym would never reproach him for it.

Dym did not waver. “Then we’ll go.”

“When?” Tony asked, and then felt embarrassed at being overly eager for something that was more painful to Dym than he let on.

“Not sure yet—I shall have to see when I’ve enough leave.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“South America.”

“Has she written to you?”

“Yes.”

Tony wanted very badly to see the letter, but he dared not ask for it. He trusted that, if Dym thought the letter was right for him to read, he would have given it to him. Then, too, Tony knew that a letter from Mutti was likely to only cause him pain. Doubtless, Dym had made the right choice.

They walked in silence for a few moments, nearing the village. Then a new thought occurred to Tony. “Is it…too expensive?” He knew that a young R.A.F. officer, even a Squadron Leader, had strained finances. It could not be forgotten, too, that Dym had paid handsomely for a great many transgressions on the part of the person who was now requesting yet another favor. Tony colored at the idea.

Dym said, “I’m sure that she will help there.” His expression was steady, but a little wry smile, not at all like his usual smile, was playing about the corners of his mouth. “I do not doubt that she will do everything in her power to arrange for a visit from you. I don’t think she lacks for resources, either. Her husband had wealth in the dye market in South America. The fortunes of war were not the same for all. Whether they ought to have been is not something I can answer.”

There was an unusual edge to Dym’s words, almost a harshness. Tony could not blame him for it. He thought of Jacob, of Richard, and of all the others, in Dym’s life alone, whose fortunes of war had been suffering and death. Tony did not think that Dym hated all the Germans, but he did not know if he hated Mutti. He did not want to know, at least not now.

The silence that followed was grim, made more so by the rainclouds that were gathered overhead and the monotonous tip-tapping of the rain on the packed lane. Tony was not afraid of the silence; he knew that the grimness was not directed at him. In a moment, however, he had to break it, for there was one more thing that he had to say.

“Thank you,” he choked. It was likely that Dym did not wish to be thanked for this particular favor, but he could not help it, even if it made Dym angry.

But Dym was not angry. In an instant, Tony felt his brother’s hand close comfortingly over his shoulder, and the steady blue-gray eyes looked down kindly into his. “It was a promise, Tony. I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t thought it right, and I wouldn’t have made it unless I meant to keep it. There’s nothing to thank me for.”

But there was, and Tony remembered it all—remembered a coat that had kept him warm that first night on the train, remembered an offer of a room in return for a spoilt desk, remembered the long, untiring years of searching, and the courage and determination that burned in every part of his brother’s life. This need for thanks, then, was one thing upon which he and Dym could not agree.

 

                                                                                                            


	9. Dym Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally skipped posting Chapter 6, it's there now! For like, the two of you who are reading this (AND I THANK YOU)

Greltham Saint Andrews was as neat and dignified as it had ever been. A war had gone on about it and in it, but Tony thought it not much changed. The Town Hall, of Elizabethan lineage, was still very grand, but in a softened sort of way, as though the wind and rain had smoothed out its edges over many years.

“Butter,” Dym said aloud, hands thrust into his pocket. “And what else?”

Tony smiled, surprised. “And milk.” It was unlike Dym to be forgetful.

The corners of Dym’s eyes crinkled. “Don’t be so horrified, Tony. I’ve always been absentminded about day-to-day affairs.”

“Truly?” It was hard to believe.

“Mm. Ask anybody.”

The streets were nearly empty; Tony supposed that most people would be better pleased indoors. He was cold and damp, but not at all sorry to be with Dym.

They ducked into the market and Dym dealt with the ration coupons. Tony surveyed the vegetable stand; there were a few potatoes left, pale and withered. He was glad that it was springtime again.

“That’s settled,” Dym said at last, coming up beside him. Tony thought the milk and butter to be rather scant, but he said nothing.

“Ready?” asked Dym.

“Yes.”

Dym nodded to the shop clerk and they stepped out into the street again. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still blank and dull with clouds. The puddles in the street were like broad, glossy pebbles, skipped and skidded by a giant’s hand.

“What was it like in the States?” asked Tony. Once he spoke, he thought it a foolish question. Surely Dym would see the other questions lying underneath it. But if Dym did, he did not say so.

“Bigger.” Dym smiled. It was slight but reassuring. “Faster and louder, too. But then, I was in New York.”

Tony did not ask what for; he already knew. Dym had been promoted to Squadron Leader before the war’s end, and anyway, he had been a distinguished airman. His captain had sent him as a delegate to the States for a ceremony of sorts. Phemie had clipped the article from the local paper, and Tony hadn’t even had to coax it from her. She hadn’t told him to be careful with it, either. She didn’t have to.

“Anything else you want to know about New York?” Dym asked, after a moment of silent walking.

Dym had a way of posing questions without saying the words outright.

Tony shrugged. “I’ve already learned that they don’t have tea.”

“Not much else to be said, then, is there?”

It was an invitation. Tony turned it down. “I suppose not.”

Dym nodded once. He shifted the milk and butter from one hand to the other, and smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead.

“Porgy and Mary and Mousie are coming, you know,” Tony said, as they mounted the hill above the village. It was skirting one subject by proposing one which he thought to be rather unpleasant, but somehow, the two were related. Unwelcome visitors—the cousins, Molly. They were all of apiece, or so he had decided to tell himself.

“Black news?” returned Dym, very solemnly.

Tony sighed faintly. “Yes.”

“I shouldn’t worry.” But Dym did not say it dismissively. He stopped in the middle of one of his long strides and pressed a quick, firm hand on Tony’s shoulder. “You needn’t either.” Tony knew he didn’t only mean about Porgy.

Tony did not wish to be difficult. It was generous of Dym to give such consideration to a brother who had been nothing but trouble in the past, and had continued to give trouble only a day ago. But the words he wanted would not come, and a good part of their return passed in silence.

Dym whistled softly under his breath, a tune that Tony did not recognize.

“Makes one wonder if it will ever be green again,” Dym said at last.

Tony heard a note of regret in his tone. He looked out at the sodden fields, heavy with rain and the matted thatch of grass that had lain dead all winter, and wondered if Dym was thinking about Greltham Saint Andrews or England, or the world.

The twins ran out to meet them as they neared the White Priory.

“I don’t s’pose they’ve any chocolate in the shops yet, have they?” asked Simon hopefully.

“Not a mite,” said Dym.

Judy inserted herself between Dym and Tony. Tony resented it, but he was resigned; open war with Judy was rarely advisable.

“Molly’s very pretty,” said Judy, eyeing Dym with calculated scrutiny. Tony stiffened.

Dym was, as usual, unperturbed. “That’s nice of you to say. You should tell her.”

“Girls,” scoffed Simon, disgust washing over his features. “Dym, why haven’t they stopped rationing?”

“It’s a long explanation,” Dym answered. His gaze caught Tony’s for an instant, and Tony was grateful. It was one look, but it said that Tony was still a part of the conversation. Not forgotten, or set aside. “Wars are very hard on countries. I’m afraid England won’t recover for a long time.”

Simon was clearly disappointed. “They might find a way to get some chocolate,” he muttered. “It’s not as though the Nazis ate it all.”

“Unlikely, isn’t it?” said Dym, with a smile.

Euphemia and Sally were laying the table for dinner inside. The house was a bustle of movement and energy; Inglefords were always eager for eating, no matter what time of day it was. Simon seemed content to forget his grievance over the chocolate shortage and busied himself with sneaking bits off the serving plates.

Tony shrank back in the hall. In numbers, the family was not so much larger than it had been a day ago, but Ginger’s presence was always expansive, and Molly filled the room in a very different way. Tony knew that it would do no good to watch her every mood with ill-concealed suspicion, but he did anyway.

 Dinner was a rowdy affair. Tony was between Jim and Mortimer, who always looked as if the loud noise pained him. Molly had found herself with one twin on each side.

 _At least_ , thought Tony, _she does not get to be beside Dym, either._

Dym for his part looked perfectly at ease. He was talking with Margaret in as low a tone as one could. Tony strained his ears to hear, but he could not make much of it.

“Who d’you suppose I saw last month?” Ginger boomed, taking over the larger conversation.

“Who?” came a chorus of voices.

“Mr. Bland!” Ginger leaned forward, a spark in his eyes. “He wasn’t mightily pleased to see me, I can tell you. I thought for certain he’d ask after Tony.”

A ripple of mirth went around the table, unshared by Tony. There rather less than fondness between himself and the evacuated schoolmaster.

Molly, of course, was not in on the joke. “Was he a friend of yours, Tony?”

A roar of laughter, headed by Ginger and the twins and joined even by some of the others answered her. Thomas managed to interject, kind and slow and deliberate as always. “Mr. Bland is a schoolmaster. He was billeted at the White Priory during the war with six of his pupils.”

“He hated Tony,” Judy added impishly, reaching for more potatoes.

“Judy,” said Dym, with a note of warning. Judy subsided.

Ginger was not so easily cowed. “He _did_ mention the desk, though.”

Dym set down his knife and fork, his face stern. A curious little pause followed. Tony held his breath. Then Euphemia began to speak suddenly and brightly about the weather, and everyone returned to eating and making noise. Tony did not know whether to be relieved or resentful. He had grown used to Ginger’s mocking, and was even occasionally amused by it. But to drag up the old history—especially the shameful story of what Tony had once done to Dym’s desk—in front of Molly was a different matter. He was too ashamed to give Dym a proper look of thanks. He could feel Jim’s worried eyes on him.

After the meal, Jim said, “It’s brightened up outside. Want to play some cricket, Tony?”

The twins followed them out. The grass was a bit wet and cold, and Tony shivered in his pullover. Jim said, “We’ll warm up soon enough.”

The twins declined Jim’s gracious offer to split sides and played as one. They were all used to small teams; Tony could barely remember the last time they’d had enough for a proper game.

Simon waved his bat. “We’ll crush you into smithereens.”

“We’ll leave you in the dust,” said Tony, through his teeth.

The match was fierce. Had Euphemia been watching she might have worried for the safety of the windows. As it was, nobody was badly injured. Simon skinned his knee. The twins might be younger, but Tony still considered it a fair match; he himself was rather clumsy at the game.

“You’re coming along,” said Jim. “Not half bad, when you remember how to actually field.” He had taken pains to teach Tony the rules; Tony was grateful but it was hard not to wish that he might be better, at least, than Simon and Judy.

They had finished the first inning when the front doors opened and Dym and Ginger came out onto the steps. Molly and Sally followed.

“A little short on manpower, aren’t you?” said Dym. “May we join?”

The twins whooped eagerly. “Right on,” said Jim. “Who’s going where?”

“I suppose I’ll settle for you two infants,” Ginger said, answering Jim but looking at Tony. It was a warm glance; Tony knew an apology when he saw one. He nodded and smiled, and felt Dym’s approval from across the lawn.

“Bat or field?” asked Ginger.

“Toss a coin,” said Dym. “If you can find one—I’m fresh out.”

Ginger scoffed at that and dug in his pockets. He found a sixpence. “Flip it,” he said to Judy.

“Heads,” Judy exclaimed gleefully. “That means we win.”

“Does it now?” Ginger demanded, tugging at her curls. Judy wriggled away from him. “Dym’s older than you,” she announced triumphantly. “That means he gets heads.”

“She’s got you there, old man,” Dym said, with a teasing grin. “We’ll bat. Simon, have at it.”

Jim bowled. His elder brothers had taught him well; he had a good arm and gave Simon quite a time of it. But on the fifth delivery Simon smacked it hard and ran, puffing, from one end of the pitch to the other while Tony scrambled for the ball.

The girls cheered from the steps. Jim shook his fist good-naturedly at Sally. “I’ll remember where your loyalties lie!”

She laughed. “With the winning team, James. Perhaps you’d better find yourself there.”

Dym was at bat next, and Ginger bowled.

“This is the real thing,” said Jim to Tony, after Dym had put in several runs for each of his first three balls. “Or would be, if we had ten more of them each.”

“If we had, one of us would have been brained by now,” Tony pointed out. “How fast do you suppose the ball goes?”

“Fast,” Jim said, dashing to field. He caught the ball—Dym was out. Jim came running back. “Ginger hits it best; he split a bat once. But Dym’s the better runner.”

It was their turn to bat again. Tony crossed to the end of the pitch, and heard Sally say, “There’s supposed to be eleven on each side, but we make do.”

She was explaining it to Molly. There was no cricket in America, as far as Tony knew. Molly was nodding, though she looked a bit dazed.

“Tony, you’re up,” said Ginger.

Dym was bowling. Tony tried his best to follow the line of the ball, wondering how Dym could release it with such easy, graceful precision. It always seemed to catch him off guard.

“Don’t watch me,” said Dym. “Watch the ball.”

Tony smacked it—straight into Simon’s waiting glove.

“At least you’ve started acquainting yourself with it,” said Ginger dryly.

The jingle of the telephone bell interrupted them. Sally went inside to get it. Molly remained on the steps, alone. She caught Tony’s glance and smiled. He looked away quickly.

“Jim, take a turn,” said Ginger. “Judy can bowl.”

Judy took her place primly. “I’m very sorry if I injure you, Jim.”

But there was no more time to play. Sally had come out again, her pointed features were drawn with concern. “Telephone for you, Dym. It’s your captain.”

The war was over, Tony reminded himself. But his heart seized up in his chest in the old way, just as it had when he heard the low throb of aircraft in the night sky and wondered if Dym would ever come home again.

Dym, serious in an instant, was to the door in a few strides. “Thanks, Sally,” he said, and disappeared inside, leaving silence in his wake.

A few moments later he reappeared. Thomas came out behind him, and asked, “What’s happened?”

Dym waited a moment before answering. “I’m to report.”

“So soon? But what about your leave?”

Dym smiled. Even from across the yard Tony could see that he was making a great effort to be cheerful. “He didn’t say. He’s a fellow of few words.”

Tony felt as though he were sinking, or that the ground was rising up around him.

“Hard luck,” said Ginger.

Sally said, “When are you leaving?”

“I’ll take the five o’clock train to London,” Dym said.

“London?” Thomas shook his head. “Not your station?”

“I’m required at some sort of special meeting.”

Of course the game was over. The twins, unusually subdued, began to pull up the wickets. Jim clapped a hand on Tony’s shoulder and they all congregated on the steps. Molly said quietly, “Do you know if you’ll get off again? Soon, I mean?”

“I don’t. I’m sorry.”

Molly smiled. “It’s alright.”

“I’d best get my things in order,” said Dym. “It’s already after two.”

They followed him inside, the bright joy of holidays momentarily forgotten.

It seemed to Tony that the day had turned grey once more.


	10. A Common Enemy

The three men, two middle-aged, one young, stood in the captain’s office while busy London ran on outside.

“You understand,” said the plain-faced man in the business suit, “That all of this must be entirely confidential.”

The airman nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m afraid I just don’t know why you’ve called me in.”

“Your service is outstanding, Ingleford,” said the captain. Through the window behind him, the city was grey. “The sort of legacy that makes a man trustworthy. But, frankly, it’s your connection in another area that made my friend here ask for you.”

“Indeed, sir?”

The quiet man in the suit stepped forward. “I’m with MI-6. You’ve managed to gain our interest, Squadron Leader.”

The airman drew himself up, his expression grave. “I’m honored, sir.”

“I understand,” said the plain-faced man, “That you’ve a younger brother.”

“Four,” said the airman, with a smile.

“One of particular interest. Anthony, isn’t it? Previously known as Max Eckermann?”

The airman’s smile faded. “I’m a bit confused, sir. What does my assignment have to do with Tony?”

“It has everything to do with Tony,” the man said. The room had grown very still; a fly buzzed on the windowsill, but in between the words spoken there was no other sound. “It was a peculiar instance—he was believed to be German, at first, before his true identity was established.” The man paused, folded his long hands, and continued. “After he went missing, more than a decade ago, you were primarily involved in the search?”

“It was my duty,” the airman said.

“Your diligence speaks for itself,” the man said. “More recently, there was an incident, several years ago, when Tony’s…adoptive parent attempted to get him back again?”

Dym shifted uneasily. “Yes. We reported it to the police, and never had any trouble afterwards.”

“Fred Halliwell was the name given, I think, by the man who provided conveyance.”

“Yes.”

The captain was watching Dym. “I know it seems odd, but hear him out.”

“Fred Halliwelli was not merely a convenient liaison for Anna Eckermann,” the agent said. “His real name is Karl Adler. He was involved in transporting sensitive information and suspicious individuals to places of immunity during the war, and now…”

Dym was silent.

“No doubt you have heard rumors of the ratlines in the rest of Europe. We believe that Karl Adler is involved in orchestrating one in Britain. That cannot be allowed to happen.”

“Of course not.” Dym nodded once.

The agent spoke again. “Anna Eckermann, we believe, has important information as to the whereabouts and connections of Adler.”

Dym’s captain laced his fingers together, unlaced them, and fiddled with the fountain pen that lay upon his desk. “Anna Eckermann has written to you, Ingleford? Since the end of the war?”

“Yes.”

“She wishes to see Tony again?”

“Yes.” The word was drawn forth almost reluctantly.

The captain leaned forward. “This is where you can help us. Times are hard, and Anna Eckermann has far fewer friends now. But a meeting can well be arranged, somewhere in a large city—”

“I’ve told Tony, sir, that I’ll take him. On my own time and pound, you understand.”

The agent stepped forward. He was smiling now, and so was the captain. There were too many smiles in the room, none of them genuine. “There’s where we come in. A connection like this is too valuable for us, Mr. Ingleford. This is a woman who knows a great deal, and now we’ve a perfect point of contact. She’ll do anything to see your brother again.” He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “You’re capable and bright—I can see that for myself. All you need to do is follow our instructions, so that we can make something of this. A need-to-know basis, strictly. You needn’t trouble yourself with the higher level details.”

Dym spoke quietly. “I don’t mean to seem disrespectful, sir, but it’s not something I can consider at all. I’m responsible for Tony. I don’t want him to be used by anyone. For any reason.”

The man in the suit let out a dry cough. “We don’t wish to imply anything so unpleasant, Mr. Ingleford.”

“Certainly not,” the captain said. “But we’re banking heavily on this chance.”

The agent interjected again. “Obtaining the information from Mrs. Eckermann would be much more difficult without an incentive. A meeting with your brother provides just that, and it’s quite a harmless one.”

Dean’s was still quiet, but an edge of steel had entered it. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I can’t.”

The two men exchanged glances, and the captain would not meet the young man’s eyes.

“You’ve done your country a proud service,” the agent said. “It would be a shame not to see an honorable discharge for your years of sacrifice.”

The young airman did not move, but his face went white. The firm lips parted, as though he was about to speak, and then closed tightly.

“I’m sure we understand each other,” the agent said, and he smiled, more grimly than before.

* * * *

Tony wondered what Molly would do after Dym left, but he kept his silence. A day later everyone else was wondering too. Tony knew that the family’s uncertainty extended only to finding the right time to ask her to stay on, but Molly could not be expected to know that. Her cheeks were flushed at the breakfast table, and before Euphemia began to clear the plates away, Molly began to speak, without looking particularly at anyone.

“I’m very grateful for your hospitality,” she said clearly, “But I don’t want to be trouble for you. I have a friend who lives in London, and I’m sending her a telegram this morning to tell her that I’ll be on tomorrow’s train.”

Tony saw Thomas and Euphemia exchange a glance.

“Unless you’d truly like that, dear, it isn’t necessary,” Euphemia told her, with a warm smile. “Dym said you were planning to stay out the week, and I hope you will. Our cousins are arriving this afternoon, so there will be more young people about, and I’m sure you’d enjoy that. And Dym may have more leave in a few days. It would be too bad for you to miss him.”

Molly’s cheeks grew redder still and she stared at her plate. “That would be swell, thanks.”

Thus the matter was settled.  Tony watched it unfold with what he hoped looked like disinterest; in his inmost soul he had not yet decided how he felt. From a purely neutral standpoint, Molly would be a novel target for the cousins. That was something, at least.

He felt uneasy as the hours passed, however, as though he owed someone a duty that he had shirked. The knowledge that Porgy, Mary, and Mousie were forthcoming was not comforting. James tapped at his door in the mid-afternoon. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked, when Tony barely looked up from his book.

James was blunt, but not unkind. Still, Tony felt no temptation to delve into his tangled inner state. “Nothing,” he said briefly. “Aren’t you helping get ready for the cousins?”

“Shouldn’t you be, too?”

Tony declined to answer.

James batted the book out of his hand. “Come along. There isn’t much to do, but it’s nearly teatime.”

Tony followed him downstairs. The twins and Sally were helping Euphemia in the kitchen. He poked his head in, and Euphemia caught sight of him. “Tony dear!” she said. “It’s past four—we’ll keep something for the cousins, but I don’t think we’ll wait much longer. Would you go run and ask Molly if she’d like tea?”

Tony stopped in his tracks. At first he wondered if Euphemia had made the request thoughtlessly, but he saw her knowing glance and realized that he was being gently prodded towards a goal that he only hazily understood.

With a resigned sigh, he made his way to the sitting room. He saw Molly before she saw him.

He knew that Dym must think her pretty; even Tony could see it plainly, though he did not often wish to. She was reading in the old easy chair—much more at ease than she had been this morning—and the sunlight danced on her hair through the window, making it gleam. Tony wondered if the book was something that Sally had lent her. The White Priory library, distributed liberally throughout the house, was not lacking.

“Euphemia would like to know,” Tony began, conscious that he was interjecting, “If you would like any tea.”

Molly started and looked up, with a ready smile. She smiled very much more than most English people did, Tony thought. Mutti had smiled very often, and almost always at him. But Molly’s was a different sort of smile.

“I’m not really hungry, thanks,” she said. “Unless it is important for me to have tea?”

Tony shrugged. “All the more for us,” he said, a bit rudely, but was surprised—not unpleasantly—when Molly laughed.

“That’s the spirit.”

Tony shifted from one foot to the other. He was beginning to see that his aversion to her was pointless at best, and he was altogether at fault for his own predicament. But pride was a stubborn master, and he was not quite ready to submit.

“Your cousins will be here soon, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are they your age?”

“James’ and mine and Sally’s.”

“How nice.” Molly closed the book. “I’ll be glad to meet them.”

Tony did not think that likely. As if in answer to her words, there was a sudden commotion in the front hall and Simon rushed into the sitting room, breathless. “They’re here!” he exclaimed.

They were, and Tony hung back in the doorway as greetings were exchanged, overcome by that peculiar and unpleasant feeling that there had been an immediate shift in the family dynamic. The cousins were all the same—he saw that at once—but more so. Porgy and Jim and Ginger were already trading college stories, and the girls were tittering with his sisters.

“Bless me!” cried Porgy, catching sight of Molly. “Who’s this?’

Introductions were made.

“Star-spangled indeed,” Porgy said, not quite whistling, but coming dangerously close. Margaret glared at him and Molly drew back, looking shy.

“And where’s little Tony?” Mousie asked, in the ensuing pause.

Tony stiffened. It was insufferable—‘little’ coming from Mousie, his age, and (finally) several inches shorter than him. He stood his ground and made no friendly overtures.

“You’ve grown,” Porgy observed, in a tone that Tony, in a better mood, would have considered friendly enough.

“So’ve you,” Tony returned, a little cuttingly. Porgy was a bit stockier than he had been, and Mousie had put Tony in a bad mood. He glowered across the hall at her. Vengeance was sought swiftly.

“I hope Tony hasn’t been giving you a hard time,” Mousie said, with a smirk at Molly. “He was such a terror when he first came.”

There was a little awkward pause. The whole family seemed to turn and look at Molly. Tony scarcely dared, but he was surprised to see that her shyness slipped away. “Not at all,” she said, with a light laugh, and then glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear—I mean to mail a letter today. Tony, will you come with me? I never remember which direction the post office is.”

“You don’t have to come, of course,” Molly said, when they were beyond the reach of curious ears. “I can find the post office. I just thought you might like an excuse to get out.”

“Thanks,” Tony answered. He searched for the words to explain—he didn’t want to walk into town, not so soon after he had gone with Dym, when the conversations of that walk would still be rattling around in his head. But he didn’t hate her any longer, and he knew that she had just been a brick. “I’ll come another time,” he said. “Promise.”

And when she smiled, he smiled back.

 

 

 


	11. For a Brother's Sake

It wasn’t all bad, with the cousins there. Porgy and Jim took the younger set into town nearly every afternoon, and when the weather was fine enough they even braved a picnic or two. But Tony could not dismiss the nagging feeling that he didn’t belong, or shake away the nasty little voice in his head that he hadn’t heard in a long time.

 _You’re not one of them,_ it said. _You’ll never be one of them._

The Easter Holidays were nearly past. Jim and Ginger’s time home was shorter still. “If Dym doesn’t get off soon, we’ll miss him,” Ginger said, regretfully.

No telegrams came. But three days after the day of croquet on the lawn, just after supper, Dym came home.

Judy took up the hue and cry. “Dym’s here!” she sang out, as loud as if she was signaling to Simon over their old tin can phone. The family congregated around the newcomer in the flash of a moment.

“Yes, I’m back,” Dym was saying. He looked tired, Tony thought. “A couple days of leave still left.”

“I’m glad,” Molly joined the others in saying. Dym had a smile especially for her, but it faded when he saw Tony.

“Long few days,” said Dym. “Think I’ll go to bed, if everyone doesn’t mind.”

“Of course not!” Phemie was already taking his coat. Tony stood rooted to the floor. He did not like the feeling that something was wrong, but try as he might, he could not shake it away. Dym assured the twins that he could carry up his duffel himself, and then disappeared upstairs with not another word but, “Goodnight.”

Tony waited until the rest of the family had filtered out. Sally lingered last, but then she went too. His heart tight in his chest, Tony went upstairs.

There was light coming from the doorway to Dym’s room—the room that led to Tony’s room behind the panel, the room he had found. They were a matched set, those rooms, just as Dym and Tony had become a matched set of brothers. At least Tony liked to think so.

Tony raised his hand to knock on the half-open door, knuckles tense, but Dym looked up and saw him. “Come in,” he said. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, knees raised slightly because his legs were long and the old bed was too low for him.

Silence held for a moment. Then Dym said, “You made a request of me.” His voice was quiet, almost grim. Tony swallowed and tried to speak. At last a small voice, not quite his own, answered,

“Yes.”

“It’s been granted,” Dym said. “Two weeks from now. Thomas and Euphemia can arrange everything with your school. Then we’re flying to New York.” He wasn’t meeting Tony’s eyes. It was strange, and uncomfortable. Dym’s gaze was always, always direct and unflinching.

“She—she’ll be there?” Tony whispered. Every other thought had left his mind; he could not think to ask about how Dym might be getting more leave or how quickly all of this had happened.

Dym met his eyes then, and there was something in them that Tony did not want to see. “Oh yes,” Dym said. “She’ll be there.” He sounded bitter. He did not sound like Dym.

Tony did not say goodnight. He wheeled around and went out, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Down, down the stairs to a front hall that was still mercifully empty. Tony fled towards the door.

He shut the great front door behind him as softly as he could. It still rang loud in his ears. The stars were out. The shadows from the window lights above him were etched on the grass, sharp and still.

Tony’s teeth chattered, but he would not go back inside. The silence of the night was better than the silence that waited in his own room, so close to Dym but somehow farther than he ever remembered being.

He might catch cold.

Tony did not care.

He heard the door open again, a light step on the walkway behind him. It was Molly, thought Tony, but somehow he could not bring himself to be angry.

“Tony,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude…”

She had seen it, too. The change in Dym’s face when he looked at Tony. Promises kept could be cruel, sometimes.

“I don’t mind,” said Tony. “It makes no difference.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Molly said. It was a strange thing to say, not a concerned question or some comforting words. She had a heavy jacket—one of Phemie’s—tossed over her shoulders.

“It is my fault,” Tony said miserably. He could not bear to say anything more about it. It was not as if he knew what to say—Dym had not told him the particulars. Surely Mutti was involved with his change in mood—there had been another change. Perhaps she had sent another letter, and it had made Dym angry. Perhaps she was trying to take Tony back. Tony wanted to see her, wanted it badly and rather fearfully, but his heart seized up a little at the thought.

Molly stood quiet beside him. He heard only her breathing. Then she tucked her hands in her pockets and turned to face him, resolute. “Tony,” she began, and went on, the words coming in little rushes, “I’ve been wanting to tell you how I first met Dym. I thought you should know.”

“In New York,” said Tony dully, interrupting. He had lost any will to fight, but he was not going to be helpful.

Molly nodded. She had wrapped her arms around herself, tugging her sweater tight; the wind was cold.

“It was a celebration,” she said. “Because the war was over, and they wanted to remember the great accomplishments of the soldiers and sailors. And airmen, of course.”

Tony was silent. The wind shook the tree tops so fiercely that a few buds, fat and glossy, fell to the ground beside him. They were dark against the ground.

“I don’t suppose you know why I was there,” said Molly.

There was no way that he could, and she knew this. Tony shrugged.

“I was there for my brother.” Molly pushed her hair back—it was tumbling over her shoulders. “It had always been just us. Our parents died when we were very small. Much like yours.”

Tony thought again of the picture in Dym’s desk, of the steady eyes and smooth, dark hair of the woman he didn’t remember. That had been stolen from him too—years of growing up hearing stories from Dym and Ginger and the others. Tony had lost every bit of that, even before he lost Mutti.

Molly seemed to understand that he had no intention of answering her. “His name was Alan,” she said. “He was two years older than me, and I loved him very much. He died in the Battle of the Bulge, and they gave him the Medal of Honor.”

Tony could see the tears standing out in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m very proud of him,” said Molly. “And they said lovely things about him. But afterward, all I could think was that I wanted him back again—the way we were before the war. I’m sure you can imagine.”

Tony could. Tony thought of Germany, and a little house that his small hand drew sliding downhill, though of balustrades and a dachshund and flowers in the window boxes. It did not even matter if sometimes in his dreams he wanted that back, not anymore.

“Dym was there, because of his D.F.C., of course. And likely half a dozen things besides.” Molly rubbed her hand over her eyes. “I was crying outside the great hall—quite like I’m about to now, just thinking of it. I’m sure you must think me very…watery.” She smiled. “Anyway, Dym saw me, and—he gave me a handkerchief. I was embarrassed, for a lot of reasons—no need to get into that now. The point is, he was very kind, and I told him about Alan, and I just…I could tell that he was one of the people who understood how much the war had cost, and how horribly it changes you.”

Tony sat perfectly still, the gravity of this new thought coming over him. He knew Dym hated the war, as Dym hated all things that were ugly and cruel, but Tony had never believed—had not wanted to believe—that the war could change Dym, even if it hurt him. Dym had lost friends in the war. Dym had suffered. But Dym had shone as bright as the sun after V-E Day, Dym was still young and alive and lively. Or had been, until this last unexpected call.

No, it could not be the war that had broken Dym. What had weighed him down was something he had heard in his time in London, surely unrelated to his RAF duties there. Mutti had gotten to him somehow. Mutti could get to anyone, though Tony hadn’t understood that for a long time. He used to think that she was wrapped around his finger. Maybe she was. But she had found her way into his heart.

“Dym is always very kind,” he said, and tried not to remember how the smile had fallen off Dym’s face.

“We talked about the war,” Molly answered softly. “And then he told me about his family.”

Tony listened, not moving.

“He talked most of all about you,” Molly added. “Oh, Tony. I wanted to meet you at once. All because of the look in his eyes.”

Tony turned away sharply. His eyes were smarting, and he did not dislike Molly any more at all, but she could not see him cry.

“It hurts him,” he said at last, when he found his voice. “I c-can’t explain, but it hurts him.”

“Love hurts us,” Molly said, her voice warm. Perhaps she was thinking of Alan. “That is how we know it’s real.”

“He always called me Max,” said Tony at last. It was all rushing back, and he hated himself, nearly, for asking what he had. But he couldn’t help it. He had let Mutti go for so long—“I don’t think he liked to, but he did. I used to hate being called Tony.”

Molly was respectfully silent. Then she reached out and put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s about seeing her again, isn’t it?” she asked. “Your—your mother? Since the war is over?”

Tony wondered how she knew, and then he knew why Dym liked her so well as he did. Molly understood.

“Yes,” Tony admitted, shoulders slumping. “He promised me he would take me to her, when the war was over. And now it is, and now he…it hurts him…”

Molly reached out, almost timidly, and gave his shoulder a quick pat before she pulled her hand away. “Sometimes we must visit our graves,” she said. “I would know. Dym didn’t tell me everything, but I know some of it. I think you might _have_ to see her, Tony. And Dym knows that, too.”

Tony flinched at the thought of a grave; his love for Mutti pale and dead, something to put flowers by and almost, but not quite, forget. “I wish it wasn’t this way.”

Molly laughed, but it wasn’t unkind; it was sad. “So do I,” she said. “But if it is to be this way, mightn’t we be friends through it? I’ve grown very fond of you, even if you haven’t always been of me.”

The air did not feel quite so cold, even if his chest still felt too tight. Tony permitted himself a smile. If it was watery, too, Molly did not say anything. “I could learn to be,” he said.


End file.
